The Ghost and the Femme Fatale (6 page)

I’m in the movie business, darling. I can’t afford your

acute attacks of integrity.

—The Big Knife,
1955

“HEY, MOM, ANY
hopheads or grape cats in that movie you saw last night?”

Okay, there
was
a time when I would’ve dropped the buttermilk pancakes on the kitchen floor after hearing those phrases coming out of my son’s eleven- year- old mouth. But given my disturbing dream of the night before, it would’ve taken a lot more than that for Spencer to rattle me.

I calmly set the warm plate in front of him. “So you learned some new vocabulary on the Intrigue Channel.”

Spencer snatched the bottle of Vermont maple syrup and began to pour. “How about whistle bait?” he asked brightly. “Any saucy tomatoes?”

“You’re a little too young to know about ‘whistle bait’—and hopheads for that matter.” I tightened the belt of my terrycloth robe. “What were you watching, anyway? An old
Mike Hammer
episode?”

“Actually, it was a
Nak
ed City
marathon,” said Spencer around his first gooey mouthful of pancakes.

“That old show from the sixties? I didn’t know they were running those things.”

Spencer nodded. “It was way wicked, Mom. One episode was about a dancing girl who fell down a flight of stairs during a party. Only she didn’t ‘fall,’ you see what I’m getting at?”

“Yes, but you know what I think—”

“Somebody pushed her!”

I adjusted my black rectangular glasses. “You know what I think, Spencer?”

“What?”

“There are eight million stories in the Naked City, but you’re not
old eno
ugh
to watch any of them yet.” Reaching over with a napkin, I wiped a dribble of syrup from his chin. He waved my hand away—a big boy now.

“I got it, Mom.”

“I can’t believe Bonnie let you stay up to watch that show.”

“Bonnie” was Bonnie Franzetti, my son’s babysitter, and sister of my late brother’s best friend, Eddie Franzetti. The Franzettis owned a successful pizza restaurant on Cranberry Street, but Eddie hadn’t followed the family tradition. Instead, he’d become an officer on the Quindicott police force.

“The marathon started at seven,” said Spencer. “Anyway, it was no big deal. I usually stay up until ten anyway.”

I had the sneaking suspicion Spencer had stayed up later than ten, mostly because it was harder than usual to wake him up this morning—after my own alarm clock had nearly given me a heart attack, that is.

“Enough talk. Finish your pancakes. The coach will be here any minute to pick you up.”

“Okey- dokey,” Spencer replied, attempting an impression of Edward G. Robinson.

Minutes later, I was shoving my bare feet into penny loafers and we were heading downstairs. I grabbed the store keys from behind the counter and let Spencer out to meet Coach Farmer’s minivan. Today was Saturday, no school, but there was an all-day baseball clinic for the regional Little League teams, and Spencer was eager to get tips on fielding and batting.

“See you, Mom!”

I waved to the coach and locked the door again. That’s when Jack finally made an appearance.

Was that kid trying to sound like Little Caesar? ’Cause he sounded more like Spanky from
Our Gang.

“Edward G. Robinson has become one of Spencer’s favorite Intrigue Channel tough guys—second only to Jack Shield. I haven’t the heart to tell him his imitation is a little off.”

Maybe Spence should wait until he gets a little hair on his lip, or at least until his voice changes
—

“Okay! End of conversation.”

I glanced at my wristwatch. It was not yet eight, but with two hours remaining before we opened our doors, there was still plenty to do. I went back upstairs to shower and dress. After blowing out my shoulder-length auburn hair, I buttoned on a simple cream- colored blouse, stepped into pressed black slacks, and returned to the shop to open the register and boot up our computer system.

For years, my aunt Sadie had run the Quindicott shop just as her late father had—that is to say, she received book deliveries and placed them on the shelves for loyal customers to wander in and purchase at their leisure. But as the store’s loyal customer base gradually died off and the town fell on hard times, Sadie prepared to pack it in, too. That’s when I offered an alternative, along with much of the check from my late husband’s life insurance policy.

With the ready cash, we remodeled the dusty old shop, overhauled the inventory, opened the Community Events space in the adjoining storefront, and launched a marketing campaign and Internet site. Sadie had always been New En gland practical, so she’d been tense about spending the money, especially when it came to mortgaging her original store to expand our space for special events. But now our business was going gangbusters. And this weekend was shaping up to be an especially profitable one for us.

I was just starting to tidy up the front display tables when Aunt Sadie finally made an appearance. She looked lovely this morning in tweedy brown slacks and a forest- green boatneck sweater, which nicely set off her short, newly colored auburn hair.

Dyeing her hair was about the only vanity Sadie allowed herself. She had a few pieces of jewelry, but seldom wore them. Necklaces were “plain useless” and “a waste of money,” whereas a chain to hold reading glasses, now that had a functional purpose—which is why she had a serious variety of chains in her collection (today’s consisted of small pink seashells). But that was Sadie Thornton: as averse to unnecessary ornamentations as a Shaker chair.

I noticed she was limping as she came down the stairs, which was unusual for my usually spry auntie.

“Backache?” I asked, pushing up my black glasses.

Sadie shrugged. “I woke up in the middle of the night with a sharp pain in my side. I thought it came from sitting so long in that movie theater seat, until I found my remote control underneath me on the mattress.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how the thing got there.”

“I’m pretty sure I do,” I said with a sigh. “There was a Naked City marathon on TV last night—”

“Spencer?”

“I’m betting Bonnie sent him off to bed, not realizing there was another televi sion in the apartment.” My suspicions vindicated, I shrugged. “That’s
one
mystery solved, at least . . .”

“What do you mean one mystery?” Sadie’s eyes met mine. “Is there another?”

“Maybe,” I said, thinking about my dream. “But if I’m going to solve it, I’ll need your help.”

Sadie raised her eyebrows, obviously intrigued. “What do you need, dear?”

“I’d like you to check your old contacts in the out- of- print book market. I’m looking for any books published about the history of Gotham Features studio.”

“Gotham Features?” Sadie said. “Just what are you looking for?”

“A lot of things . . .”

Yeah,
said Jack in my head,
like whether Hedda actually had a motive to set up Irving Vreen for the big knife. Or was it Pierce Armstrong setting Hedda up?”

“Or was the whole thing simply a tragic accident,” I silently reminded the ghost. “Just like last night’s falling speaker. Maybe Hedda really is just accident- prone.”

Brrring!

The store’s front doorbell interrupted us. I glanced at the locked glass door and saw Dr. Irene Lilly waving at me from the other side.

“What’s she doing here so early?” Aunt Sadie asked. “Her book signing isn’t scheduled until noon.”

“She’s probably worried about that overnight shipment of her new book arriving from the publisher. Remember? The first shipment never got here.” I grabbed the key from behind the counter and hurried to open the door.

“Good morning, Mrs. McClure. Ready for another big day?”

Once again, Dr. Lilly looked very West Coast in a sunshine yellow ankle- length cotton dress and leather sandals. Her tanned complexion contrasted attractively with her straight, dark blonde hair. Despite the early hour, she was brimming with energy as she entered the store. Laugh lines deepened around her eyes when she greeted my aunt.

“Sadie and I were just about to set up while we waited for the delivery of your books,” I told her, closing and locking the door again.

“Good,” said Dr. Lilly. “I just know your shop’s going to get a big crowd today. I wanted to bring you both coffee and pastry, but the line at your town’s wonderful bakery is running halfway down the block!”

“Uh- oh,” I murmured, glancing at my aunt. “I hope Linda Cooper remembers the order I placed.” I’d requested four dozen of their lighter-than- air doughnuts and two giant thermal containers of coffee to be ready by nine this morning. “I’d better get over there and pick them up.”

Dr. Lilly slipped the suede purse off her shoulder and set it down on the counter. “Go,” she commanded. “Your aunt Sadie and I can get the event room set up.”

“Thank you so much, Dr. Lilly—”

“Please, it’s Irene.”

“I’ll be back with coffee and donuts in no time,” I promised, snatching up my keys and purse.

I SHOULD HAVE
known this day would be a disaster when I turned the ignition key on my battered Saturn and nothing happened.

“Not now,” I groaned. “How am I ever going to get everything back to the store without a car?”

I can’t help you solve
every
mystery, doll
, Jack replied.

“It was a rhetorical question,” I pointed out. “Beside which, you don’t have a body, so how could you help?”

Low blow, baby.

“Sorry. I’m not mad at you, it’s just—”

It’s just that sometimes a dame needs a
real
man aro
und the house, not just some spook. Well, open your peepers or you’ll miss your pal, Charlie Big Suds
—

“Huh?”

Jack the Biscuit. The pie- eater who featherbeds for the mail ser vice
—

“Seymour!” I cried out the window.

Seymour turned on the sidewalk and waved. Then he slung his mailbag over one shoulder and sauntered up to my window.

“Car trouble, Pen?” he asked.

I nodded.

“It’s probably a lost cause, but if you unlock the hood, I’ll be glad to take a look.”

I popped the hood and Seymour lifted it. He tinkered around for about a minute and told me to turn the key again. I did, and we both heard the sound of silence.

Seymour closed the hood. “It’s your battery.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“You’re kidding, right? The thing’s deader than a Kennedy. When I roll out my ice cream truck later, I’ll give you a jump and you should be good to go.”

When Seymour wasn’t delivering mail, he was moonlighting as an ice- cream truck vendor. That was all well and good: “But I need a car
now
—this minute!” I told him. “I have to bring a bunch of goodies from Cooper’s back to the store.”

Seymour eyes brightened. “You’re heading to the home of the melt- in- your- mouth bear claw? Treat me and I’ll help you out.”

“It’s a deal!”

I opened the trunk so Seymour could stash his mail. Then we set off down Cranberry Street toward the busy bakery. All along the main street, the faux antique Victorian streetlamps were festooned with posters advertising the movie festival’s films. Many featured the voluptuous form of the young Hedda Geist,

star of
Wrong Turn
,
Man Trap
,
Bad to the Bone
,
Cruel and Unusual
, and
Tight Spot
.

“Did you go to the lawn party at the Finch Inn last night?” I asked Seymour.

“You bet,” he replied. “I never miss a chance to goad Fiona Finch. Did you see the way she and Barney renovated that miniature storm tower she calls a light house? I told her I liked it better when it was painted Day- Glo orange and covered with graffiti—”

“Oh, come on. I haven’t seen it yet, but it can’t be that bad. And who needs graffiti? It’s just an eyesore.”

“Hey, you can learn a lot from reading that stuff. Archaeologists search for Roman graffiti just to get a feel for what the common people were thinking.”

“But that’s history—”

“Yeah, and I learned the
romantic
history of Quindicott High School from that old tower, before Fiona defaced it. By the way, do you happen to know anything about a girl named Brenda? She’d probably be in her midtwenties by now, and—” Seymour stopped in his tracks. His slightly bulging eyes bulged a little wider.

I followed his gaze to the front of Mr. Koh’s grocery store, where a beautiful young blonde was selecting fresh fruit from the store’s wooden bins. I recognized her immediately.

“That girl,” I whispered, “she was with Hedda Geist last night. Do you know who she is?”

“Her name’s Harmony Middleton,” Seymour informed me. “She’s Hedda’s granddaughter.”

The girl wore a hot pink tank top over white, very short shorts, and a young man in jeans and a rock band T-shirt was obviously flirting with her. I recognized the shaggy dark hair and the shamrock forearm tattoo. It was Dixon Gallagher, one of Bud Napp’s part- time employees at the hardware store, and I wondered if Bud had used him on the final fix- it work he’d done for Brainert’s theater.

A roaring engine suddenly shattered the quiet on Cranberry. I turned to see a black- and- chrome motorcycle pulling up to the Koh’s fruit stand. The rider was a big guy, wearing blue jeans and a black leather jacket. Without pulling off his ebony helmet, or lifting its tinted visor, he grabbed a drink from the outdoor refrigerator. Then he turned to observe Harmony and sauntered over to her. He finally pulled off his helmet. but I couldn’t see the blond man’s face. I could tell he was making some kind of joke, purposefully finding a way to join the conversation. Harmony laughed and smiled at him, pushing his beefy arm playfully while Dixon smirked and folded his own tattooed arms tightly.

Seymour shook his head. “Like moths to flame.”

“Excuse me?”

“That same little scene got played at least ten times at last night’s lawn party—except with different players.”

“What do you mean exactly?”

I’ll tell you what the postman’s saying,
Jack piped up in my head.
Harmony just might be a chippy off the old block
.