The Ghost and the Femme Fatale - Haunted Bookshop 04

by Alice Kimberley

  Dr. Lilly stepped back and Hedda began to speak.

  "Thank you all for such a warm welcome! I am ever so grateful for this opportunity to come forward again and greet my fans. You know, my screen career ended long ago. But this festival is truly a gift to me, showing my films, making me a star again." She smiled. "Or at least feel like a star again..."

  The crowd laughed and applauded.

  "Indeed, tonight truly is like yesteryear. You've made it all come back to me—"

  An intense flash suddenly illuminated the stage. The silent burst of light was followed by a shower of sparks that rained down around the standing mike, where Hedda was speaking.

  Another flash came from above, and the startled elderly woman looked up.

  "Oh, my god!" someone cried from the first row.

  "The speaker!"

  "Look out!"

  Screams came from all over the theater as the massive black audio speaker dropped from above, trailing sparking wires.

  Brainert lunged for Hedda and pulled her away. The object struck the heavy microphone stand, smashing the metal flat. More screams filled the theater as the speaker bounced across the stage, then came apart. People in the front row leaped up as the debris scattered.

  "Oh, my God, Jack," I silently cried. "That speaker could have hurt Hedda!"

  You mean killed, don't you? Look at that steel microphone stand, baby. It's smashed beyond recognition.

  Now I was on my feet along with everyone else, and another figure dashed onto the stage—Bud Napp. As sparks continued to flutter down like sizzling snow, Bud raised his arms and signaled for calm. "All right, people, settle down now," he declared in the same tone he used when presiding over our Quindicott Business Owners Association meetings. "No one was hurt, and there's no cause for alarm!"

  "What happened?" someone cried.

  "Looks like our public address speaker fell, that's all," Bud continued. "There's no danger to anyone, so don't panic. But as you can tell from my shouting, we lost our audio system . . ."

  Behind Bud, the young, blonde Hedda lookalike darted across the stage to put an arm around the elder Hedda. Appearing shaken, the actress quickly recovered, and the young woman led her off stage.

  Brainert stepped forward, careful to avoid the sparking wires, as he loudly addressed the crowd. "I'm sure Dr. Lilly will be happy to finish her lecture tomorrow morning, at the Buy the Book store on Cranberry Street."

  Dr. Lilly nodded. "I'm sure to have my new book delivered by then!" she shouted. "I hope to see you all there!"

  "And we'll hear from the great Hedda Geist-Middleton later this weekend, too!" Brainert added, forcing a stiff grin across his still chalk-white face. "Meanwhile, I have an idea. Let's forget about this little mishap and proceed to the lawn party at the Finch Inn!"

  Spotty applause followed, and then the crowd began to buzz with excitement as it moved up the aisles. The electric reaction didn't surprise me. Witnessing a shocking accident was a gossip gold mine in this little town. Not only had these folks scored a story to tell for weeks to come, they could start rehashing it right now at a party with food and drink.

  I remained in my seat, waiting for the mob to disperse. Then I approached the stage, one eye on the shattered speaker and the hot, sparking wires still flashing overhead.

  That Hedda Geist. . . Jack remarked.

  "What about her?"

  She's one accident-prone dame.

  "What do you mean by that?" I demanded.

  But the ghost didn't answer.

  "Jack? Are you there?"

  He wasn't. For whatever his reason this time, the ghost of Jack Shepard had once again faded to black.

  CHAPTER 3

  Night Trips

  The work of the police, like that of a woman, is never done.

  —He Walked by Night, 1948

  I DIDN'T GO to the party on the Finch Inn lawn. Even though it was a Friday night, Spencer's sixteen-year-old babysitter had a midnight curfew. Normally, my aunt Sadie would have stayed home with Spence, but being in her seventies hadn't precluded accepting a hot date for the party with widower Bud Napp. I, on the other hand, was young, dateless, and had to get home.

  After letting Spencer's sitter out the bookstore's front door, I relocked the shop, climbed the stairs to our three-bedroom apartment, and checked on my sleeping son.

  Spencer was in dreamland on his narrow bed, his breathing deep and even; his orange-striped cat, Bookmark, curled up at his feet. He was eleven now, and, not for the first time, I noticed his growing resemblance to my late older brother: the thick, auburn hair with the stubborn cowlick, the long-lashed eyes, and light dusting of freckles. I had those features, too, but unlike my brother, who'd been a real lady's man, I'd never been anything close to a magnet for the opposite sex.

  Thank goodness Spencer's too young for all that, I thought. But I knew it wouldn't be much longer before he started calling girls, or they started calling him. That was the sort of "problem" I'd be happy to deal with compared to what we'd already gone through.

  A few years ago, after his father's suicide, Spencer had become increasingly withdrawn—not unlike Calvin's own behavior before he'd stepped out the bedroom window of our high-rise apartment.

  After Calvin's funeral, my son seemed convinced that I was going to leave him next, so he didn't want to leave me—didn't want to go to school or summer camp, was reluctant even to step out of the apartment. Then nightmares plagued him; his fears increased, his grades fell, and the therapist my wealthy in-laws had hired for him was unable to help.

  That's when the McClures began to pressure me. Spencer needed to "get away," they said. Their solution was boarding school. Mine was a whole lot different. I moved us up to my little hometown of Quindicott, Rhode Island.

  It had been difficult at first. Calvin's mother and sister had hit the roof—fashionable, upscale Newport was the place to live in Rhode Island, not my dinky little hometown. They hadn't understood my decision, and Spencer had been angry that I'd forced him to leave New York, abandon everything familiar.

  Instead of his exclusive private academy, Spencer was now attending public school. His new bedroom was half the size of his old one, the posh view of skyscrapers exchanged for a single old tree. His sleekly modern private bath was now a shared restroom with a claw-footed tub and a chipped sink.

  Eventually, however, he came around; and now he was a completely different child. It was hard for me to admit, but even before Calvin's death, Spencer had been moody and taciturn; sometimes so shy he had trouble making friends. Maybe he'd been reflecting Calvin's own depression and aloofness. Or maybe being in the shadow of a spoiled, lousy, self-absorbed father was just as bad as dealing with the loss of one. (Not that I want to speak ill of the dead.) But my boy was so much happier these days; so much more alive, with blossoming interests and solid grades in school. He even enjoyed helping out at the store; and those terrible nightmares? Gone.

  I smiled with that thought as I half-closed my son's door and moved to my own bedroom. Stifling a yawn, I kicked off my low-heeled shoes, changed out of my slacks and blazer, and slipped into my nightshirt. Then I settled under the covers, set my black-framed glasses on the nightstand, and clicked off the light.

  Inside my head, however, the light remained on.

  Looking at my sleeping son had raised my spirits, filled me with joy and certainty. But in the darkness, something else took over: a vision of what had happened less than an hour earlier, an image of danger and near death.

  That huge, black audio speaker had fallen onto the theater stage like the grim reaper looking for a soul. The calm of the audience, followed by the shock, the screams, the chaos . . . it reminded me of my late husband all over again: of his being right there in our quiet bedroom one moment, and down on the sidewalk the next. I could still hear the shrieks on the street, the squealing of brakes, the sirens.

  "There was a flash," I mumbled beneath my bedcovers. "And sparks. Why were there so many spark
s? And then that awful smashing noise. Why? Why did it fall?"

  My bedroom felt warm, but the temperature rapidly changed. An icy breeze began swirling around me. I opened my eyes. My flowered curtains weren't moving. There was no breeze. No wind; not outside, anyway. Beyond the open window, the black branches of the hundred-year oak appeared still as the grave.

  "Jack?" I whispered into the chilly darkness. "Is that you?"

  Miss me, baby?

  "Where were you?"

  Where do you think? I was back here, waiting for you. I'm going to take you out on the town...

  "I don't know what you mean... "

  Yeah, you do, baby. We've done it before.

  "But I want to discuss what happened earlier at the theater. What did you mean by Hedda being 'one accident-prone dame'?"

  I'm going to show you. It's something I witnessed years ago, and I want you to see it, too. But you have to close your eyes.

  Once more, I tried to argue, but a giant yawn stifled my words. I began to feel incredibly groggy. My eyelids drifted lower, and then everything went black...

  "EVERYTHING'S SO BRIGHT!"

  Hearing the giggly voice of a teenaged girl, I opened my eyes. People surrounded me, raucous noise, honking car horns, and lights—thousands of lights.

  "Where am I?" I whispered.

  "Lady, you've got to be kidding!" exclaimed that giggly teenaged girl. "You're in Times Square! Sheesh!"

  The girl scampered off with a group of her friends. I blinked and rubbed my eyes, but the bright mirage failed to fade. I was standing in New York's Times Square—only this wasn't the Times Square I remembered. The surrounding buildings were much lower than during my time, the billboards more primitive, with flashing lightbulbs instead of digital images, and most of them were advertising products I'd never heard of... Kinsey Blended Whiskey? Rupert Beer?

  The marquees and landmarks were all wrong, too, I realized. Automat? Hotel Astor Dining? Capitol Theater? Where was the Virgin Records Store? The Bertelsmann Building? The Toys 'R' Us, McDonald's, and towering Marriott?

  Streetcars ran on tracks up and down Broadway. Cars the size of small army tanks spewed leaded gasoline fumes; and the men and women jostling me on the sidewalk were attired so formally—suits and fedoras, Sunday-best dresses, and white gloves. Not a pair of shorts, baggy jeans, or sneakers in sight. Not one miniskirt or belly-baring top.

  I looked down at my own clothing and gasped. The evening gown I was wearing resembled nothing in my closet. The dress was a strapless, slinky number, a form-fitting golden yellow with black embroidery along the top edge of a shockingly low bodice. Opera gloves, dyed to match the gown, covered three-quarters of my arms, and black, peep-toe pumps with four-inch heels were on my feet.

  "What in the name of Sam Hill am I wearing?!"

  As a few passersby turned their heads, I felt a sharp tap on my bare shoulder.

  "What's the matter, baby? Don't you like it?"

  The deep, gravelly voice was one I knew well. It was the voice of Jack Shepard, now attached to the body he'd had in life. A gray fedora sat on his sandy hair; a double-breasted suit was attractively tailored to his broad shoulders and narrow waist; and despite his menacing iron jaw and the ominous dagger-shaped scar on his square, flat chin, he wore an openly bemused expression.

  "Ava wore that little number in Singapore. I saw it last year at the Mayfair—or half of it anyway, before my mark took a powder."

  "Ava Gardner?" I looked down at my gown again and frowned. "Did she have an acre of cleavage showing, too?"

  "Yeah," said Jack. Then his granite-colored eyes took me in from my painted toenails to my upswept hair. With a single finger, he pushed back the front brim of his fedora and gave me a little smile. "But I prefer redheads."

  I touched the back of my own shoulder-length auburn hair, now gathered into some kind of twist. I felt old-fashioned bobby pins holding it in place. I also realized that I wasn't wearing my black-framed glasses. I blinked, trying to discern whether my contacts were in. I didn't feel those, either, yet I could see just fine.

  "What's this all about? I was trying to talk to you about Hedda Geist and what you implied about—"

  "I know. Come on," he said, taking my elbow, none too gently, and hustling me along the sidewalk.

  "Easy! Not so fast! I can hardly walk in these torture devices!"

  Jack barely slowed. "They're part of the cover, doll. So suck it up and march. You're on a case with me, now, and I'm not putting up with bellyaching."

  "Case? What case?!"

  Jack didn't answer, just kept hustling me up the block then around the corner. He slowed as we approached a dark green awning. There was no writing on the fabric, no sign on the heavy door.

  Jack stopped and glanced down at me. "Got your breath, baby?" Before I could answer he pulled open the door and stood aside. "After you."

  "After me? Where am I going?" I peered into the darkness beyond the door. "What is this place?"

  "You'll get all the answers you want if you just move your skirt inside."

  I tentatively stepped forward, teetering on my ridiculously high pumps.

  "Good evening, miss," a voice called from the abyss.

  My eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, and I realized I'd stepped into some sort of reception area.

  "Do you have a reservation?" A middle-aged man in a tuxedo was addressing me from behind a wooden podium. "Are you meeting someone?"

  "I... uh... "

  "She's with me," said Jack, stepping up to the maitre d'.

  "And do you have a reservation?" The tuxedo-clad man glanced at the large open ledger on his podium.

  "We don't have a reservation," Jack replied smoothly, "because, you see, the lady didn't like the Broadway show. So we left early. We've had dinner already, so we'll just be wetting our whistles at the bar until our friends leave the theater across the street. That okay by you?"

  Jack palmed the man a bill.

  "Of course, sir," said the maitre d'. "Enjoy yourself."

  Jack stepped up to me, and I expected him to grab me by the elbow again and hustle me inside. But he didn't. This time, he leaned toward me and offered his arm.

  "Oh," I said with an undisguised smirk, "now you're going to act like a gentleman?"

  "It's not a proposal of marriage, baby. I'm just trying to make it look good."

  "Well, the way you manhandled me on the street, I'd rather not."

  I tried taking a few bold strides all by myself, but I had zero practice carrying off four-inch heels beneath a slit-skirted gown, and I nearly fell on my face.

  In a flash, Jack was there, propping me back up. "Take a break from Miss Prissland," he rasped in my ear, "and take my arm already."

  I knew when I was licked. With a sigh, I wrapped my gloved arm around the gray fabric of his double-breasted jacket and let him escort me into the large dining room.

  Two "M" words hit me the second I walked into that place: money and masculinity. The wainscoting and tables were dark, heavy wood. The walls and tablecloths were the forest green of a gentleman's club pool table. And the chandeliers and crystal decanters looked heavy, leaded, and very expensive.

  Middle-aged waiters in bow ties, white shirts, and long white aprons moved silently around the buzzing room, serving craggy-faced men in three-piece suits, most of whom were smoking cigars and cutting up thick slabs of red meat with huge steak knives.

  The leather booths around the edges of the room were occupied by couples. Almost every woman was young and beautiful; almost every man paunchy, graying, and clearly much older.

  One particularly creepy May-December couple caught my eye. Not because of the man, but because of the woman—or, more precisely, the girl. She was very young: seventeen, maybe even sixteen. With the heavy makeup on, I doubted very much she was the man's daughter or niece. And when her fingers began stroking the back of her dinner companion's hand, I threw that theory right out the window—while simultaneously trying very hard not to
throw up.

  The teen was no raving beauty, more like the girl next door with caramel-colored curls and a dimple in her chin. Her face also looked familiar for some reason, but I just couldn't place it. I could place the silver gown, though: It was the exact satin dress that Hedda Geist had worn in the opening scene of her famous noir picture Wrong Turn.

  "What is this place?" I whispered to Jack as we moved across the bare oak floor.

  "The Porterhouse."

  "A steakhouse?"

  "For our purposes, it's a stakeout house." "Excuse me?"

  "Take a seat," ordered Jack, gesturing to the bar stool.

  I sat and Jack sat next to me. There was only one other couple, at the far end of the polished oak bar, and the young bartender came over to us right away. "What can I get you both tonight?"

  "I'll have scotch, straight up, and—" Jack turned to me. "Tell the man what you're drinking, baby."

  I tapped my chin in thought. I wasn't a drinker per se, but we did ask to sit at the bar so a soft drink would look conspicuous. "I know," I finally said, "the perfect drink for this occasion would be a Vesper."

  The bartender's brow wrinkled. "A what-sper?"

  "A Vesper," I said, incredulous the bartender at such an upscale restaurant wasn't familiar with the most famous cocktail recipe in the English-speaking world.

  "What's in it?" he asked.

  "It's a martini," I told him, "made with three parts gin, one part vodka, and one-half part Lillet."

  "Lillet?" The bartender frowned. "Not vermouth?"

  "The Lillet adds more sweetness and tropical aromas than dry vermouth," I informed the man. "Or at least that's what I remember from Casino Royale. And, of course, it should be shaken, not stirred, served in a wineglass, and garnished with a lemon twist."

  "We stir martinis here, ma'am. Nobody shakes them."

  I threw up my hands. "James Bond does!"

  The bartender glanced at Jack. "Is that you?"

  "Of course he's not James Bond. Bond's the most famous Cold War spy in the world." I glanced around. "What year is this anyway?"