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

  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 television 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 around 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 service—

  "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 lighthouse? 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 observ
e 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. "Excuse me?"

  She wears skirts that defy gravity. She buys underwear with loose elastic. In other words, she's a real—

  "Okay, okay!" I told the ghost. "I get it!"

  "That girl not only resembles her granny," Seymour said, "she attracts male admirers the way Hedda did back in the day. And let me tell you, the wolf pack was circling Harmony for hours—much to Hedda's chagrin."

  "Oh, really? Hedda didn't like it?"

  "As soon as Harmony started flirting with the young men at the party, Hedda had some trivial reason to call the girl over and order her around. It seemed pretty obvious she didn't like sharing the spotlight."

  Seymour struck a diva pose and assumed a falsetto. "Get me another punch, dear! I don't care for this ballpoint they gave me; find me the one I brought to sign autographs! I need my wrap from the car!"

  Seymour lowered his voice. "I'll give the girl this: She never back-talked her grandmother. Just scampered around and did the woman's bidding. Me? I would have told the old bag to go jump in the duck pond."

  "Maybe Harmony simply respects and admires her grand-mother. And Hedda's probably used to speaking to Harmony like a child—"

  "More like an employee," Seymour said. "Which would be more accurate, because Brainert told me that Harmony isn't just a relative, she works full-time as Hedda's assistant. And, boy, does Hedda work it!"

  Now the mail carrier's got me wondering...

  "What Jack?"

  When Grandma Hedda's finally six feet under, what sort of inheritance will Little Miss Harmony get?

  "You're saying you suspect her of something?"

  I suspect everyone of something, baby. The little miss I suspect of having a motive to off her grandmother. Last night's "accident" with the falling speaker almost flattened Hedda Geist—a dame who treats this girl like a servant, which must chafe, even if the girl doesn't let on. And didn't you just notice Harmony talking to one of Bud's employees?

  "Yes, but there's no way Bud Napp could be involved with a murder plot. Not Bud."

  Maybe not your auntie's boyfriend, but how well do you know the kid working for him?

  "I don't know Dixon at all, except to see him behind the counter at Bud's store."

  Well, Harmony seems pretty chummy with him.

  "Or it's simply an innocent flirtation—like the big, blond guy who drove up on the black motorcycle."

  Either way, I'd say the girl had a motive, and her little friend had the opportunity.

  "To do what, Jack?"

  To rig that speaker to fall smack on the old diva's noggin, that's what! Pay attention, doll!

  "I am paying attention, but nobody's saying that speaker was rigged to fall. We'd need evidence for that."

  So go get it. Talk to your aunt Sadie's Buddy boy about it, if you trust him that much. Napp will give you the scoop whether something was hinky.

  "Hey, look at that!" Seymour interrupted (not that he knew he was interrupting). He was pointing out a poster on the next block. "C'mon, Pen, let's get a move on. I want a look at that poster."

  We strode quickly up the block and Seymour rushed toward a poster that someone had just put up. It advertised the screening of an old Gotham Features movie, Mike O'Bannon of the Sea Witch.

  "Sweet!" Seymour said. "I'm a big fan of the Fisherman Detective! What about you, Pen?"

  My brow wrinkled. "The what detective?"

  "It's a series of movies from the forties, starring stunt-man-turned-actor Pierce Armstrong. He plays a private detective who's also a fisherman."

  Fisherman detective? Jack snorted. The gumshoes I knew only had one thing in common with fish—they drank like them.

  "Rumor has it Pierce Armstrong's going to be one of the surprise special guests this weekend," Seymour said excitedly. "At least, according to Barry Yello's Web site this morning—"

  "Armstrong?!" I couldn't believe it. "Pierce Armstrong is still alive? And he's coming here . . . to Quindicott?"

  Quick, baby, ask Dizzy Dean what he remembers about Act Two of the guy's life.

  "Yes, of course!" I turned to Seymour. "Wasn't Pierce Armstrong mixed up in the death of Irving Vreen, the owner of Gotham Studios?"

  "Brother, is that an understatement!" Seymour declared. "Tell me what you know."

  "He stood trial for manslaughter, and they sent him to prison for five years."

  Lucky he didn't get a dime, Jack said. Judges and the public liked red meat back in the day . . .

  "I'm sure the district attorney would have stuck him for murder instead of manslaughter," Seymour went on, "but there was a glitch. Vreen died from a stab wound, but Armstrong didn't actually stab him. I don't know a lot of the specifics—"

  "It was Hedda," I blurted out. "Armstrong tripped and fell in a restaurant. He knocked Vreen onto a large steak knife, which Hedda was holding."

  Seymour looked at me, puzzled. "How do you know that? I mean, it isn't exactly in the mainstream. The only reason I know about Pierce Armstrong going to prison is because of a bio attached to his filmography in Films of the Forties. That's the only thing in print about the man, as far as I know, and it's been out of print for thirty years."

  "Oh... er... someone told me last night—at the theater."

  "Well, Armstrong did hard time in Ossining—you might know it better as Sing Sing. And by the time he got out, his star turn was over."

  Tell your mailman pal to keep wagging his tongue, Jack urged. He's giving us good gravy.

  "So what did Armstrong do?" I asked Seymour. "After he got sprung from Sing Sing."

  "Well, people on the East Coast wouldn't hire him, since they still remembered the Vreen murder and held it against him. So Armstrong went back to Hollywood, where he still had friends in the stunt profession. They helped him get back his old career as a stuntman in cowboy pictures. If you know what to look for, you'll see him taking punches or bullets in just about every classic Western, from John Ford's The Searchers to The Gene Autrey Show"

  "What about Hedda?" I asked.

  Seymour shrugged. "She was never charged with anything, as far as I know. In fact, I'm pretty sure she testified against Armstrong at his trial."

  I frowned. That didn't seem right at all. "But she was holding the knife."

  Seymour shrugged. "If you're implying that Armstrong was railroaded, I won't argue. He's always been one of my favorite B-movie guys, so I'd be the first one to give him the benefit of the doubt. And Hedda paid another way. With Vreen dead, Gotham Features collapsed and her career was over."

  "Did you hear that, Jack?" I silently asked.

  I heard, baby. If Hedda set up Vreen for murder, then she simultaneously set up her own career for sudden death.

  "Then what possible motive could she have had to kill Vreen?" I quietly wondered. "It must have been a tragic accident . . ."

  "Yeah," Seymour went on, "today's Tramp Pack of starlets and pop divas may thrive on bad-girl publicity, but back then, scandal was heavy baggage. Hedda's ex-boyfriend had been sent to prison for the death of her married lover. It was obviously too much for the public to accept because no studio would touch Hedda after that. But I guess she made out okay, anyway."

  "How do you mean?"

  "I chatted with Brainert's soda pop academic pal last night—you remember, Dr. Pepper? He told me Hedda lived the life of Riley after her movie care
er was over. She married Lincoln Middleton, a television executive. When he died, she inherited a ton of money, along with his family's horse farm in Newport." Seymour snorted. "Nice life, if you can steal

  it... "

  CHAPTER 5

  An Explosive Notion

  Thanks for the ride, the three cigarettes, and for not laughing at my theories on life.

  —The Postman Always Rings Twice, 1946

  THE MAILMAN AND I arrived at the Cooper Family Bakery to find it mobbed. Dr. Lilly hadn't been exaggerating—the line of customers ran down the block. Some were locals, but most appeared to be festival attendees.

  "Look, Pen!" Seymour elbowed me. "A friend of ours is almost up to the counter. C'mon!"

  Seymour was fine with cutting the line. Me? I wasn't so comfortable with the dirty looks we were getting until I saw who the "friend of ours" was: Bud Napp.

  This is your chance, baby. Wait till Buddy boy's all sweetened up with pastries, then grill him!

  "Check!" I told Jack. But Seymour beat me to the lanky hardware store owner.

  "Hey, Thor, where's your mighty hammer?"

  It was Seymour's favorite joke with Bud, who used a ball peen hammer to maintain control over the Quindicott Business Owners Association meetings. Bud used to have a real judge's gavel, until someone lifted it. Now he carried his "good-as-a gavel" to and from our meetings on his tool belt.

  "Hi, Bud!" I said brightly, hoping to make up for Seymour's jibe.

  "Hello, Pen," Bud said, touching the brim of his Napp

  Hardware baseball cap. Then he frowned at Seymour. "Cut the crap, Tarnish. I'm not in the mood."

  Seymour's eyes bulged. "My, we're testy today. What's eating you?"

  Bud was silent as he eyed the people around us. "Nothing I care to talk about."

  Noting Bud's surly mood, I quickly changed the subject by explaining my plight. Bud immediately offered to help me transport the coffee and pastries back to the bookshop in his hardware store van.

  Ten minutes later, he'd downed two doughnuts and a large coffee, then rolled the truck up to the front of the bakery and unlocked the rear double doors. The crowd parted as Seymour and I loaded up the goodies. The three of us wedged ourselves into the front seat of the van. With my elbow jammed into Bud's overalls, we were off.