Ellen Hart Presents Malice Domestic 15: Mystery Most Theatrical. Karen Cantwell

of her favorite scent—lilacs—and felt a curl brush my cheek as she bent over to whisper in my ear. “Promise not to tell anyone? It was on a box of glass sconces being delivered to the State Theater site. I saw them on the loading dock yesterday on my way to work.” She crowed, “That place is gonna be something grand! Can you imagine? Glass shades all the way from some factory in France!”

      Art’s is over on Jefferson Street, and from the day in 1926 when they started building the grand new State Theater on the corner of Jefferson and Salina, Clarissa spent even more time dreaming about the day she’d tread the boards.

      “Harry,” she said to me one day as she served the free whiskey Art promised me for life the day I tipped him off to federal Prohibition agents heading for his joint.

      “Yeah, doll,” I said, raising my glass and nodding thanks to Art behind the bar.

      “Promise me if I’m an actress, you’ll come and see me over at the State?” She had a sweet little pout and employed it now.

      “Darlin’, if you play the State, I’ll be there in the front row.” I savored a sip of my rye, and then added. “And don’t say ‘if’. It’ll be when.”

      She beamed at that as she skipped back to the bar to ferry another round to a raucous group of flappers and swells smoking and drinking on the velvet settee. They were in for a scolding. Everybody knew Clarissa hated cigarettes. I grinned when I heard her tell one dapper young man to “Put out that coffin nail!”

      Whenever I came in, Clarissa made it a point to recite to me all the facts about the new Oriental-style “movie palace” which would feature both vaudeville acts and first-run moving pictures.

      “The Herald says the State will have 2,900 seats, all upholstered in red velvet,” she told me one day. “And the Wurlitzer organ that plays during the movies? It has 1,400 pipes and can make the sound of hoof beats, a locomotive, even birds in the trees.” She looked at Art’s ceiling, starry-eyed. “Syracuse is going to have one of the grandest theaters in the whole country, and I’m gonna play it. You mark my words!”

      With the building site just down the street, it wasn’t long before the big shots behind the project found their way over to the speakeasy. Art was only too happy to have them, along with their fat wallets.

      It also wasn’t long before those big-city types noticed our little Clarissa.

      One of the builders took quite a shine to her, and filled her head with promises of a career on the stage. Who knows, maybe they weren’t meant as empty promises. We’ll never know, now.

       * * * *

      No Prohibition-era wedding had as generous a bar as Clarissa and Felix’s. Art made sure of that. All the regulars gathered to toast our little beauty and her beau.

      Just before the couple left to catch the train to Niagara Falls, Clarissa extracted one last pledge: “Remember your promise, Harry. You’ve got to come see me act at the State Theater.”

       * * * *

      As I watched the theater construction from the vantage point of my fourth-floor office on Salina Street, I often thought about Clarissa and hoped her dream would come true.

      Meanwhile, I kept busy with the missing persons cases, suspicious husbands and wives, and the occasional lost or stolen valuables which were bread and butter for me, Harry Jerome, PI.

      In the decade since I’d returned to my hometown as a private detective, I’d revived my reputation as a finder. My old nickname from the force—The Hound—started appearing in headlines for my most high-profile cases and reporters gave them mysterious-sounding names like The Lady in Black back in ’19 and The Freelance Accountant in ’24.

      Except for quiet moments alone in my digs, I almost forgot about the circumstances under which I’d left the force and Lara left me. Those were the times I headed for Art’s for a little bootleg whiskey and some companionship. And of course, the latest news about “our Clarissa,” as we regulars still thought of her.

      They say she took to visiting the construction site daily while her builder husband went about his business, sitting in the balcony’s Section B in a ladylike white dress, watching as the opulent theater rose up around her and dreaming of her moment in the footlights.

       * * * *

      “Did you hear about Clarissa?” Art asked one day, a concerned look on his face. “Some of the building crew were here last week, and one of the barmaids overheard them gossiping that her new husband isn’t quite as attentive as he should be. He’s been ‘auditioning’ some of the hoofers trying out for the vaudeville chorus line, if you get my drift.”

      “Shame,” I said. “She deserves better.”

      “Well, if what they say is to be believed, she may find it. There’s some electrician, name of Oscar, who notices her there in the balcony, day after day. Shall we say, maybe sparks will fly?”

      I raised my whiskey in a silent toast that our friend would find the career—and the love—she deserved.

       * * * *

      One day in ’27, I opened The Herald and gasped. Builder’s Wife Falls to Her Death the headline blazed. Budding Actress Topples from Balcony After Witnessing Stagehand’s Demise.

      Clarissa had been in her favorite seat, probably daydreaming about her career and watching workers get the theater ready for its grand opening, when Oscar misconnected two wires, electrocuting himself. Whether she ran to save him, forgetting she was on the balcony, or fainted from shock and toppled over the railing, we’ll never know, but she landed in the orchestra seating, breaking her neck.

      The wake Art put on for her rivalled that of a mayor or a titan of industry. All the regulars were there, trading stories of our little sweetheart and drowning our sorrows in bathtub gin.

      Some of the theater people were there, too, including Clarissa’s husband. The bereaved widower had wasted no time finding a new sweetie to squire around.

      “That’s Vivian,” Art said, with a nod toward a brassy blond who was loudly offering her condolences to Felix as she hung on his arm. “They say he found her in the costume shop, where she was working as a seamstress. Used the same line, offering her a chance at stardom.”

      I finished my whiskey and left, before I did something I’d regret.

       * * * *

      The theater opened February 18, 1928. Since no one had braved the Salt City’s lake effect snow that Saturday morning to seek out The Hound’s help, I decided to tackle the snowbanks myself and catch the matinee across the street.

      They certainly spared no expense, I thought as I entered the lobby with its red-flocked walls and gilt trim. Up the grand, filigreed staircase, the architect Thomas Lamb, who’d just finished Madison Square Garden in New York City, had created an Oriental fantasyland on the promenade lobby. People ran their fingers through the water of a koi pond with real fish, and gawked at a replica Japanese pagoda fountain.

      The house was packed to see the elaborate stage show Milady’s Fans, followed by the Syracuse opening of William Haines and Joan Crawford in West Point. It seemed everyone in the city had paid their two bits to check out the new theater.

      As I headed for my orchestra seat to the accompaniment of the organist warming up on the Wurlitzer, I looked up at the magnificent Louis Comfort Tiffany chandelier in the lobby, originally created for Cornelius Vanderbilt’s mansion. Must’ve been a bit of glare from those hundreds of bulbs. My eyes started to water as my gaze drifted to the doorway marked Balcony B.

       * * * *

      It wasn’t long after the grand opening that the rumors started circulating. The new theater, everyone said, was haunted.

      People