The Ghost and the Femme Fatale (20 page)

I sell gasoline, I make a small profit. With that, I buy gro

ceries. The grocer makes a profit. We call it earning a liv

ing. You may have heard of that somewhere.

—Out of the Past,
1947

BUD NAPP SLAMMED
his ball peen hammer on the table. “Motion carried,” proclaimed the hardware store own er. “I’ll draft a letter of protest to the mayor today, and deliver it in person first thing Monday morning.”

He set the hammer down and lifted his paper cup of coffee. Bud paused, the cup halfway to his lips. “I’ll inform ‘his honor’ that every member of this orga ni za tion refuses to pay these unfair fines—and I can’t wait to see the look on that mealy-mouthed politician’s face.”

Getting every last one of the Quibblers—aka, the Quindicott Business Own ers Association—to attend a meeting at eight-thirty on a Sunday morning might have seemed insane a week ago. But a second round of two- hundred- dollar littering tickets written to every business on Cranberry Street automatically rendered everyone fit for a straightjacket.

The previous eve ning’s Film Festival party on the Commons had left a pile of trash on the city streets, and the mayor decided to levy punishing fines on all of the business own ers to cover the cost of clean- up.

As soon as Bud found the ticket plastered to his hardware store’s front door, he made a few phone calls. He discovered, after dragging the police chief out of bed, that Ciders had been leaned on by the mayor, who was threatened with po liti cal punishment by none other than Councilwoman Marjorie Binder-Smith—and her wealthy Larchmont Avenue backers. So Bud had called this emergency meeting.

“Enough is enough,” said Gerry Kovacks, own er of Cellular Planet. Like everyone else, Gerry had arrived at his business this morning and found the littering ticket taped to his door. “It isn’t fair. We pay taxes already. Too damn many taxes, too!”

“You go get them good, Bud Napp,” cried Mr. Koh, own er of the local grocery store. Then he ripped his ticket up and scattered the confetti- sized pieces across my hardwood floor.

“We’ve got to fight,” Danny Boggs declared. “No way I can afford four hundred bucks worth of fines in a single weekend.”

Seymour, who was sitting between Sadie and me, jumped to his feet. “I found a ticket on my ice- cream truck this morning. I don’t control what those little bastards do with the ice cream wrappers after I sell them! This is fascism—and I know governmental persecution when I see it! I’m a federal employee!”

“What we need is a rebellion,” Milner Logan cried. He punctuated his call with a militant power fist in the air. “Power to the self- employed business own ers!”

Although Milner looked the part of an aging radical, the long straight ponytail that flowed down his broad back wasn’t part of a po liti cal statement. He was one- quarter-blood Narragansett Native American and had worn his hair that way since childhood.

Milner and his wife, Linda Cooper-Logan, should have been at their bakery now, with Sunday being their busiest morning. But they were both so furious about the tickets, they’d entrusted their business to a pair of part- time workers to make their voices heard.

Linda ran an agitated hand through her short, spiky Annie Lennox eighties hair. “I can’t believe it’s come to this!”

“Well it has,” said Glenn Hastings of Hastings Pharmacy. “And it’s all because of one woman. Marjorie Binder-Smith!”

You’d have thought we were in the Movie Town Theater, watching a Boris and Natasha cartoon, the way everyone in the Community Events room booed the municipal- zoning witch. When the curses and catcalls faded, Aunt Sadie spoke up.

“Why don’t you tell them your news, Bud?”

“News?” Fiona Finch asked, sitting up straighter. “What news?”

Sadie grinned. “Bud has
big
news!”

Standing on the raised platform, Bud nodded and rested the palms of his hands on the table.

“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve had it with this town’s prohibitive business taxes, stifling regulations, and outdated zoning codes. I think it’s time
somebody
stepped up and took the system on—starting with the municipal zoning witch herself. That’s why I’m running for Marjorie Binder-Smith’s seat on the city council this fall!”

The Quibblers greeted the news with loud applause and shouts of support.

“It won’t be easy,” Bud warned, “since the councilwoman has had the backing of the town’s wealthiest residents for years. They’re fat, happy property own ers who don’t want our Cranberry Street business district to expand. But times are changing in Quindicott. We haven’t seen better days in de cades, and it’s because of us! Our hard work! They thumb their nose at capitalists, but we don’t have old money accruing oodles of interest in stocks and bonds and Carib be an bank accounts. We have to
work
for our living! And I promise you that I’ll protect our interests and give my best if you see me through to victory!”

Everyone applauded and shouted their support; some even rushed up to Bud to shake his hand.

“Wow,” Seymour said, sitting beside me. “I’ve never heard Bud talk like that before.”

Sadie smiled and nodded. “He said he got inspired watching speech- makers on the History Channel.”

“The History Channel?” Seymour frowned. “Then you’d better keep him away from the German documentaries.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean if you see Bud watching a little guy with a small, dark mustache giving angry speeches to throngs of blond people,
change
the
channel
.”

His announcement over, Bud sat down.

Most of the group, now much more optimistic, headed out the door, hurrying to church or back to their businesses. As the room cleared, Bud raised his ball peen hammer.

“Okay. Guess there’s no other business this morning, so I’ll officially close this meet—”

“Not so fast!” Fiona cried. “I want to know how Penelope’s investigation is going. And I think I have some information that may help.”

Halfway out of their seats, Milner and Linda paused.

“There’s an investigation?” Linda asked. Blue eyes wide, she plopped back down, dragging Milner with her. “Tell us more.”

“Yeah, I’m kind of curious myself,” said Bud. “So I cede the floor to Penelope McClure.” He banged his hammer, and I noticed Brainert shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

I stood and brought everyone up to speed about the audio speaker falling in the theater and the tragic “accidental” death of Dr. Lilly in my store. I told them about the burglary of Dr. Lilly’s light house bungalow, seeing Dr. Rubino hurrying into the woods, then seeing him later with Harmony Middleton. Then I told them that I believed someone was trying to kill Hedda Geist- Middleton, too—and that Pierce Armstrong was tangled up with her past as well as Dr. Lilly’s new book.

“Whew!” Linda cried. “That’s a brainfull!”

“Don’t worry, we can puzzle this out if we just apply a little logic,” Milner insisted. “Anyway, it’s more interesting at the moment than mixing another batch of pastry dough. I’ve been working like a dog and I can use a break.”

Fiona Finch had already read Dr. Lilly’s just- published book cover to cover, so she took the floor next. Today she wore a kelly- green pantsuit and a blue- and- yellow parrot pin.

“Well,” she began, “I want to start by saying that
Murd
ered in Plain Sight
is a fascinating book. My only complaint is that the author waits until the final chapters to reveal her intriguing theory—”

“This isn’t a reading group, Fiona,” Seymour griped. “Don’t waste our time with your literary opinions. Just cut to the chase!”

“Stuff it, mailman. I’m the one who read the book!”

Fiona then cleared her throat and proceeded to tell everyone the story of Hedda Geist’s rise from nothing to minor stardom, and the events surrounding the death of studio chief Irving Vreen.

“Dr. Lilly believes Hedda Geist was involved in a conspiracy to eliminate Irving Vreen, and I think she makes a solid case for murder,” Fiona concluded.

“She most certainly does not!” Brainert responded. “There’s simply no proof at all, only innuendo. Why, I could not even discern a motive, and what’s a crime without a motive?”

That’s my problem with all this, too,
Jack murmured.

As the ghost’s deep voice rumbled through my still- sleepy mind, I automatically smiled. “Jack,” I silently whispered. “Good morning.”

Morning, baby. Enjoy yourself last night?

“What do you think?”

I think you know what I think.

“Have you been listening to all this?”

Yeah, sweetheart. And if I had a head, it would be aching by now. I’d rather be watching your backside in your bedroom.

“Jack... don’t start, you’re going to make me blush. Then what would I tell the Quibblers?”

That you go bored with their yammering and started daydreaming about a detective who’s hot in the zipper for you. What else?

“Jack!”

“I’m telling you, Fiona,” Brainert argued, as my cheeks reddened. “There’s no motive—”

“You didn’t discern a motive because you obviously skimmed the text.” Fiona waved her copy of Lilly’s book under Brainert’s nose. Dozens of multicolored Post- its fluttered like tiny UN flags.

“Dr. Lilly claims to have read memos from Jack Warner, the head of Warner Studios, begging Irving Vreen to release Hedda from her contract so she could work for him. Warner told Vreen that he wanted to bring Hedda out west, to Hollywood, and give her starring roles in big- bud get movies opposite the likes of Humphrey Bogart, Robert Mitchum, and Edward G. Robinson. Can you imagine a young woman in her twenties getting such an amazing offer?!”

“Where did you read that?” Brainert demanded.

Fiona thumbed a pink Post- it and flung the book open. “Here, on page 224.”

Brainert snatched the book out of the woman’s hand and scanned the page for a moment. “There are no footnotes here!” Brainert exclaimed. “If Dr. Lilly really read such memos, then she should have quoted them, given them a proper citation in the back matter, provided photocopies in the appendix, cited an archive source!”

“How about the quote on page 233? It’s highlighted in yellow,” Fiona shot back.

Brainert flipped pages, read the passage aloud. “ ‘Benny Seelig, the studio manager and property master at Gotham Features, once heard Irving Vreen boast that “Jack Warner wanted Hedda so badly he tried to buy my entire studio.” In an interview in 1966, Mr. Seelig claims Vreen had to cut Mr. Warner off with a sharply worded letter that ended with the line “I
own
Hedda. Don’t ask again.” ’ ”

I froze in my chair. “My god, Jack, Did you hear—”

Brother, did I ever. And if that wasn’t a motive for Hedda Geist to punch Irving Vreen’s ticket, I’ll eat my fedora.

“Even the conspiracy makes sense now.”

I follow, baby. If Jack Warner wanted Hedda that badly for his big Hollywood studio, then she could have promised Pierce Armstrong and Wilma Brody contracts with Warner, too. That would have been motive enough for them to help her.

“So, you see,” Fiona continued to explain, “Hedda must have murdered Vreen to get free of his binding contracts. But she was young and naïve—if not downright stupid. According to Dr. Lilly’s book, when the news of Vreen’s death hit the papers, the scandal ruined Hedda. All sorts of unsavory details were splashed across the headlines during Pierce Armstrong’s trial. It came out that Hedda was having an affair with Vreen, a married man with a young daughter. No one would touch her for leading roles after the tabloids got done with her, not even Warner Studios. She went to the West Coast anyway, and when she found herself without a career, she used her sex appeal to land a wealthy TV executive as a husband.”

“Did the newspapers ever accuse Hedda of planning a cold-blooded murder?” Brainert asked.

“Not according to Dr. Lilly’s research. That accusation was never made at the time—not even by Pierce Armstrong, who, even through his own trial, continued to maintain that Vreen’s death was a tragic accident.

“There! You see!” Brainert cried. “Don’t you think Armstrong would have told the truth during his trial? After all, he was on the hot seat. He had every reason to point the finger at Hedda for planning Vreen’s murder.”

I shook my head. “No, Brainert, don’t you see? If Pierce Armstrong had done that, then they would have tried him for participating in a
premeditated
murder. He could have gotten the gas chamber for that back then. Instead, the judge gave him five years for manslaughter. The man probably kept his mouth shut to protect his own hide.”

“So why is he talking now?” Brainert folded his arms.

Seymour piped up. “Probably because Dr. Lilly tracked him down and encouraged him to tell his side of the story. He’s an old geezer now, at the end of his life. He probably figures he has nothing more to lose by setting the record straight for posterity. And don’t forget he’s an actor at heart. A final bow in the spotlight through a book telling his story would sound pretty sweet to a guy like that.”

“Everything you’re saying is just speculation!” Brainert threw up his hands. “Dr. Lilly’s version of the truth relies on hearsay from a forty- year- old interview with a man named Benny. If an actual letter from Jack Warner exists, then where is it?”

I answered that one. “I’ll bet that letter, and those memos, are part of what was stolen from Dr. Lilly’s bungalow. More evidence could have been included in Dr. Lilly’s missing manuscript, too. After all, Maggie Kline told us that Pierce Armstrong gave the woman extensive interviews.

“But any allegations made in this book should have been proven in this book!” Brainert replied.

“Says you,” Seymour cut in. “If you recall, the press showed up to see Dr. Lilly’s talk. The doctor herself invited them, which meant she probably
did
have the evidence. She probably wanted to make news by showing the reporters the memos and letters first. Then she could have published all that stuff in her second book. That way, she could sell two books to the public: the first book about Hedda’s life story and the second with Pierce Armstrong’s version of how the murder went down.”