The Ghost and the Femme Fatale (2 page)

When it concerns a woman, does anybody ever really

want the facts?

—
Philip Marlowe,
Lady in the Lake,
1947

Quindicott, Rhode Island Present Day

LISTEN, BABY, YOU
can’t solve a puzzle when half the pieces are missing...

That’s what Jack Shepard advised me after I’d found the corpse that bright, spring morning, even though I pointed out his declaration had a few holes in it. People guessed at half-solved puzzles all the time.

“What about
Whee
l of Fortune
?” I argued. “You can buy a vowel and sound out the words. You don’t need all the pieces.”

Jack wasn’t impressed with my TV game- show analogy, partly because the show hadn’t been invented until de cades after he’d been shot to death in my bookstore, but mainly because he’d had more experience with hom i cide than yours truly, and not just because he was a victim of it.

Jack Shepard had been a cop in New York City before heading off to Eu rope to fight the Nazis. After he returned from the war, he opened his own private investigation business— until 1949, when he was gunned down while pursuing a lead in a case.

Unlike Jack, I, Penelope Thornton- McClure, single mom, widow, and in de pen dent bookshop own er, was far from a professional sleuth. Sure, I was a longtime fan of the
Black Mask
school of detective fiction; but a few years back, when the Rhode Island Staties were eyeing me as a person of interest in a murder investigation, I’d needed more than a fictional detective, and I got one.

Not that I rely on the ghost exclusively. After I discovered the corpse that sunny May morning, I notified the authorities, like any sane citizen. But while our local police chief was still deciding whether or not the death was accidental, the PI in my head was pronouncing it murder. Not only that, Jack believed the first effort to end the victim’s life had been attempted the previous eve ning, during the opening night screening of Quindicott’s first- ever Film Noir Festival.

At the time, I hadn’t realized the “accident” I’d witnessed was attempted murder. Nobody had. Most of us had been too distracted by the preparations for the long weekend of events, myself included.

The festival was going to feature book signings as well as movie screenings, lectures, and parties. At least a dozen of the invited speakers and panelists had front- or backlist titles to hock, and my bookshop was stepping up to handle the trans actions.

The primary reason for the film festival, however, wasn’t to hand me book sales, but to draw crowds to the Movie Town Theater.

For de cades the old single- screen movie house had been a boarded- up wreck. Then a group of investors bought the property and worked for years to resurrect its spirit. I couldn’t wait to see the renovated film palace, and on opening night, I was one of the first in line . . .

“
SO, PENELOPE, WHAT
do you think?” Brainert asked, rushing up as I stepped out of the sparkling new lobby and into the theater proper. “How do you like our restoration?”

J. Brainert Parker was a respected professor of En glish at nearby St. Francis college, a loyal Buy the Book customer, and one of my oldest friends. He was also a leading member of the group who’d bought and restored Quindicott’s old movie house.

As the chattering crowd flowed around us, I stood gaping in shock at the theater’s interior. When a few impatient patrons jostled my stupefied form, Brainert grabbed my elbow.

“Come on,” he said, “we’re in the reserved section.”

As we walked, I continued to gawk. Every last chair in the 700- seat theater had been reupholstered in red velvet. The aisles were lined with a plush carpet of sapphire blue that matched the lush curtains, now parted to reveal a huge movie screen beneath a proscenium arch carved in art deco lines. The lines were reechoed in the theater’s columns, where sleek, angular birds appeared to be flying up the posts toward a sky mural of sunset pink clouds painted across the ceiling, which supported three shimmering chandeliers of chrome and cut glass.

“Oh, my goodness, Brainert . . .”

“She speaks!”

“It’s . . . it’s
amazing
!”

Brainert straightened his bow tie and grinned. He had a right to preen. Few people thought restoring our little town’s only theater was worth the effort.

“Looks a lot different from all those Saturday afternoons we spent here, doesn’t it?” he asked.

I pushed up my black rectangular glasses and shook my head in ongoing astonishment. “Do you even remember the last movie we saw here?”

Brainert pursed his lips with slight disdain. “
The Empire
Strikes Back
. Don’t you recall? It was your brother’s idea to take us.”

“Oh, my god... that’s right ...”

I’d almost forgotten my older brother’s obsession with Luke Skywalker, lightsabers, and space travel. Shortly thereafter, Pete’s passion had fallen from the fantastical heavens to more earthly pursuits: hot rods and a hot girl, to be exact, both of which had led him to showing off on a dark road, where a tragic accident had taken him to an early grave.

The Movie Town Theater had died around the same time: A brand- new multiplex had opened up on the highway. Eight screens meant eight different choices versus the Movie Town’s solitary offering. Like a lot of businesses on Cranberry Street, it appeared to have outlived its era.

But Brainert disagreed vehemently with that mind- set. Retro was in. The nearby seaside resort town of Newport had been restoring like crazy, and he became obsessed with returning Quindicott’s own dark theater to its art deco glory.

“It’s remarkable, isn’t it?” Brainert said as we took our seats within a roped- off section. “Everything old is new again.”

“Yeah, for a
pri
ce
,” piped up the voice of Seymour Tarnish.

The fortysomething bachelor and avid pulp collector was sitting one row behind us. For to night’s big event, he’d exchanged his mailman’s federal blues for khaki slacks, a loose cotton button- down, and an untucked avocado green shirt—the perfect camouflage for his daily indulgences at the Cooper Family Bakery.

“Oh, it’s you.” Brainert sniffed. “Haven’t gone postal yet, I see.”

“I’m waiting for you to go first, Parker. Everyone knows academics are high- strung.”

Seymour was as famous in Quindicott for his lack of tact as his big win on
Jeopardy!
a few years back, but I’d learned to live with it. He was not only a reliable book- buying customer, he’d been surprisingly helpful to me in my nascent sleuthing.

“So Seymour,” I said, half turning in my seat, “what do you think of the restoration?”

“Not bad.” He tossed a fistful of popcorn into his mouth and began crunching away. “I remember seeing
Jaws
here in the seventies. What a wreck! You couldn’t find two seats together that weren’t broken. The floor was sticky—and I’m not talking SweeTarts sticky; I’m talking toxically gross upchuck sticky. And the columns were brown, weren’t they?”

“They were absolutely disgusting is what they were,” Brainert said. “There was some sort of a . . . a
crust
on them.”

“What ever,” said Seymour, stuffing more popcorn into his mouth. “They look pretty good now.”

“
Pretty
good?” Brainert spun and glared. “I’ll have you know we’re going to get landmark status from the local historical society! And be careful with that popcorn. You’re spilling it.”

“It’s the movies, Parker. Haven’t you heard the term
popcorn flick
?”

“Theater
sho
uld be
where literature goes at night.” Brainert snapped his fingers.
“Comprende?”

Seymour squinted. “En glish, please.”

“There are
enoug
h
movie screens in this state devoted to comic- book heroes and computer- animated kiddy schlock,” Brainert replied. “Quindicott’s Movie Town Theater has a higher purpose: to uphold the light of the modern cinema. We are a regional art house! We do not show popcorn flicks!” He lowered his voice. “Frankly, I’m perturbed that my partners outvoted me on even selling popcorn.”

“You shouldn’t be. When it comes to the movie theater business, concessions are where the cash cow moos.” With a loud slurp, Seymour sucked on the straw of his extra- large soda. “And correct me if I’m wrong, but your little redecorating job here”—he waved his giant, plastic cup toward the restored art deco columns and shimmering chandeliers—“I’m guessing it all cost a
tad
more than an associate En glish professor carries around in mad money.”

With a huff, Brainert turned to face front again.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I hate it when he’s right,” Brainert muttered. “And I wish that hot buttered popcorn didn’t smell so good. I was so ner vous about a crowd showing, I didn’t eat a thing at dinner.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be ner vous anymore.” I patted the arm of his blue blazer. “This place is jammed.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, good eve ning! If you’ll all take your seats and quiet down, we’ll get started...”

“Who’s that?” I whispered, gesturing to the man who’d just climbed the stairs to the stage.

“That’s Wendell,” Brainert informed me. “Dr. Wendell Pepper, dean of St. Francis’s School of Communications.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “You’ve mentioned him before. He’s one of your fellow investors in the theater, isn’t he?”

“He was also instrumental in getting Hedda Geist to become a partner.”

“Hedda Geist? You mean the famous film noir actress? The one who stars in to night’s movie?”

“The same. One of the woman’s grandchildren was in Pepper’s Media Matters class, and he used that connection to meet Hedda and secure her investment.” Brainert lowered his voice again. “That’s the reason we selected film noir as the theme for our very first festival. The woman
insisted
we showcase her movies this weekend.”

I raised an eyebrow at that. “Once a diva, always a diva, huh?”

“Indeed.”

“Well . . .” I shrugged. “It’s a small price to pay for her contribution. Besides, her movies are good.”

“Yes, I know.” Brainert shook his head. I only wish her funds had been enough to complete the project. Dean Pepper and I had to go to the college to pony up the final bit of cash. And Pepper didn’t much like the idea, I can tell you. It took some real teeth pulling to get him to go out on a limb with me, but look at him to night! The man’s as jolly as the proverbial green giant!”

Brainert was right. The dean was an attractive, broad-shouldered man in his early sixties with a sturdy profile and salt- and- pepper hair. His attire, pressed chocolate brown slacks and a tweed jacket, was as somber as Brainert’s, but his ruddy face was displaying the grin of a grade- school boy on a carnival ride. He looked practically giddy.

Brainert shook his head. “I still can’t get over Dean Pepper’s transformation! That man’s been an anxiety- ridden wreck for the past year, convinced the restoration would never end. Until a few weeks ago, he was skeptical we could get ten seats sold for the opening- night screening. Just one mention of this theater and he’d give me a look like he was ready to kill.”

“So what changed his mind?”

“Not what,” Brainert told me with a roll of his eyes. “Who.”

Seymour suddenly leaned forward to interrupt. “Did you say that guy’s name is Dr. Wendell Pepper?”

“Yes,” said Brainert.

“You’re kidding,” said Seymour. “
Dr. P
epper
? Like the soft drink with that old dopey song- and- dance- man commercial?”

“Don’t even go there,” Brainert warned.

“You mean he’s not”—Seymour cleared his throat and sang, “
the most original teacher in the whole wide world
?”

Brainert rolled his eyes. “Real mature, Tarnish.”

As Dean Pepper waited for the crowd to settle down, he checked his watch and directed a little wave toward a seat in the reserved section, two rows in front of us.

An attractive woman waved back. From her youthful hairstyle of bouncy, shoulder-length cocoa- brown curls with scarlet highlights, and trendy red- framed glasses, I would have put her age at around forty, but when she turned, the wrinkles betrayed her. She was obviously much older—in her late fifties, maybe, or even a well- preserved sixty. Between plastic surgery, laser treatments, and Botox, who knew what age people were anymore?

“Is that the dean’s wife?” I asked Brainert, pointing to the woman.

“No,” he said flatly. “The dean just got divorced.” Then he turned toward the aisle to speak with an usher who’d approached him.

“Welcome! Welcome, one and all, to the new Movie Town Theater!” Dr. Pepper was now speaking into a standing microphone, which projected his voice through a large, black amplifier, hanging high above him. “What a turnout for the very first film of what I’m sure will be an
annual
Film Noir Festival! Give yourselves a hand!”

The crowd did, the college students adding high- pitched whistles and loud woofs.

“We have quite a lineup of movies and guests this weekend,” Dr. Pepper continued. “And this eve ning we’re all in for a real treat. The Poverty Row gem you’re about to see was released in 1948, and in the de cades following became a recognized classic of the film noir genre. After we’ve screened the picture, you’ll hear much more about it from film historian Dr. Irene Lilly, just one of this weekend’s many very special guests—”

He gave a private little wink toward the rows in front of us, and I noticed that same attractive older woman waving at him again. That must be Dr. Lilly, I decided, and asked Brainert if I was right.

“No,” he said. “That’s not Dr. Lilly. That’s Maggie Kline.”

“The screen and televi sion writer?” I asked excitedly.

Brainert nodded.

I’d never met Ms. Kline, but I knew her by reputation. Years ago, she’d written two screenplays in a row for Paramount Pictures that were nominated for Oscars, and she’d penned dozens of teleplays for some of my favorite crime and mystery shows. She’d even published a few suspense novels, too. Her latest book was nonfiction—an encyclopedia of female sleuths. It was a wonderful title, and we’d ordered quite a few copies, hoping to snag her for a signing over the weekend.