The Ghost and the Femme Fatale - Haunted Bookshop 04 Read online

"What about Wheel 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 decades after he'd been shot to death in my bookstore, but mainly because he'd had more experience with homicide 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 Europe 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 independent bookshop owner, 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 evening, 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 decades 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 English 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 price," piped up the voice of Seymour Tarnish.

  The fortysomething bachelor and avid pulp collector was sitting one row behind us. For tonight'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."

  "Whatever," 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 should be where literature goes at night." Brainert snapped his fingers. "Comprende?"

  Seymour squinted. "English, please."

  "There are enough 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 English 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 nervous about a crowd showing, I didn't eat a thing at dinner."

  "Well, you shouldn't be nervous anymore." I patted the arm of his blue blazer. "This place is ja
mmed."

  "Ladies and gentlemen, good evening! 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 tonight'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 tonight! 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. Pepper? 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 evening we're all in for a real treat. The Poverty Row gem you're about to see was released in 1948, and in the decades 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 television 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.

  I eyed the way she was looking at Dr. Pepper on stage. "So..." I elbowed Brainert, "is Maggie Kline the mysterious 'who' that's turned Dr. Pepper into a giddy schoolboy?"

  "Isn't it obvious?" Once again, Brainert rolled his eyes. "They've been phoning and e-mailing for months—ever since Dr. Lilly suggested that Maggie Kline be contacted for a guest speaker slot. According to Pepper, they hit it off from the first phone call. Maggie even came out here a week early, just so they could spend time together. He's besotted with her, although I can't imagine why."

  "What do you mean by that?" I asked, automatically feeling defensive. After all, I myself wasn't getting any younger. "She's obviously accomplished—attractive, too, for that matter. Sure, she's no spring chicken, but it's not like Dr. Pepper up there isn't eligible for an AARP card."

  "No, no, Pen. You misunderstand me," said Brainert. "My objection has nothing to do with her age or looks. She lives in Arizona. End of story."

  "Excuse me?"

  "What's he going to do after she goes back there? Take a six-hour plane ride for a dinner date?"

  "Love isn't a function of convenience, Brainert. The heart doesn't work like that."

  "Well, it should. Otherwise, what's he in for? Heartache. Longing. Either that or jet lag."

  "What does it matter to you, anyway?"

  "It matters to me because the second that woman leaves, the dean's going to be in an even fouler mood than he was before, and he always takes his temper out on me! 'Parker, I hope you fully appreciate what I've done, going out on a limb with the college, helping you secure that much-needed funding.' ' Parker, what's your plan for the financial viability of the theater?' " Brainert massaged his temples. "I tell you, Pen, I can't take it anymore."

  Before I could suggest reasonable alternatives to Dr. Pepper and Maggie Kline splitting up, Pepper's voice boomed. "Now, without further ado, I'm delighted to give you Wrong Turn ..."

  The crowd applauded loudly and Bud Napp, the lanky, silver-haired widower and owner of Napp Hardware, hustled to move Dr. Pepper's standing microphone back into the wings.

  "What's Bud doing on stage?" I whispered.

  "Oh, Bud's been a big help," said Brainert, "along with his part- time construction crew."

  "I didn't know he handled the restoration."

  "He didn't. He just came in for some last-minute stuff— painting and wiring, hanging that public address speaker . . ."

  Brainert's voice trailed off as the house lights dimmed and the movie started. On the big screen, the Gotham Features logo appeared—white clouds parting to show the dark silhouette of the Empire State Building—and then came the view of a road at night, shrouded in shadowy fog.

  Bright white headlights cut through the mist. A large black sedan rumbled by—the only vehicle on the empty road. Inside the sedan, the driver looked like an average Joe, coming home from a day of sales calls. He wore a cheap suit and battere
d fedora. His tie was pulled loose and his five o'clock shadow made him look haggard and beaten.

  Then the sedan's headlights lit up a stunning sight. Hedda Geist, the female lead, raced forward, onto the deserted Long Island road.

  The crowd began to applaud. "Hedda, we love you!" cried a young man's voice from the audience.

  She was young and beautiful, with waves of gold flowing over shoulders as creamy smooth as a marble statuette. She looked scared and vulnerable running along in bare feet, wearing a form-fitting gown of shimmering satin, with a plunging neckline and a bow on the bodice.

  "Stop, please!" she called. Her gown was torn off one shoulder. She held it up with one hand while waving at the oncoming car with the other.

  The Joe in the sedan gasped, his leather shoe slammed on the brake, and his car squealed to a halt.

  What's the pitch, sister? Last time I saw this flick, it was 1948. Did somebody dial back the cuckoo or what?

  The gruff voice I'd heard hadn't come from the screen. And it hadn't come from the audience. The voice had come from inside my own head. After a long day of slumber, the ghost of Jack Shepard had finally woken up.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Big Drop

  NICK BENKO: You wait around long enough and sooner or later everything falls right in your lap. EDDIE WILLIS: Like rotten apples.

  —The Harder They Fall, 1956

  "KEEP IT DOWN, Jack," I silently warned. "I'm watching a movie."

  I can see that, doll. I'm just surprised Hollywood took a turn for the worse. I thought by now they'd be making new pictures, not recycling the same old lamplit celluloid.

  "Hollywood's made plenty of new pictures since you... since you... you know... "

  Since I got lead poisoning? Got my ticket punched? My lights put out? What is it with you square Janes? Always tiptoeing around the bare truth. You're completely bughouse about prettying things up—

  "Jack, please! Why don't you just settle back and watch the movie?"

  Because I've seen it before, doll. And it's a B picture—not that the A pictures were that much better. At least New York was filming on the cheap. In my day, Tinsel Town was spending like drunken sailors—$600,000 for one movie. What a scam job. Leaking that kind of scratch for what? Costume and cardboard? A couple of chippies reciting lines off a pile of papers?