The Ghost and the Femme Fatale - Haunted Bookshop 04

by Alice Kimberley

  Benny scratched his ear with his pen. "Well, Sandy might be listed as the owner of those cars, Jack, but he wouldn't have been driving them. Those particular cars are being used for a six- week shoot."

  "A shoot of what?"

  "Movie's called East Side Serenade. We're wrapping it next week."

  Jack's jaw worked silently. "Then anybody at the studio could have used those vehicles?"

  "Oh, no. Not anybody." Benny said. "Those are expensive automobiles. Sandy keeps a strict log. And when those keys aren't on the shoot or with a driver who signs them out, then they're with me." Benny reached into his pocket, pulled out a massive key ring, and jingled it like Santa Claus shaking his sleigh bells.

  "You wouldn't mind if I took a quick look at Sandy's log book, would you?"

  Benny smiled. "Not if you got another hot tip for me from that jockey friend of yours at Aqueduct. You do and she's all yours."

  Jack nodded. "I'll ring you inside of a week. And that's a promise."

  "Good enough for me." Benny waved his hand. "Come on over to my desk."

  Benny rifled through a stack of clipboards and paperwork and found Sandy's log. "What do you wanna know?" he asked, opening the log book.

  Jack pulled out a slender notebook from inside his jacket pocket, riffled backward through some pages.

  "First date I'm after is April sixteenth."

  Benny's thick finger moved down a page in the log. "Here we are. Shooting wrapped at sunset and the car was signed out by an actor."

  Jack frowned. "You let actors borrow these vehicles?"

  Benny shrugged. "Part of the perks if you're a principal player. Irving doesn't pay much, you know, so he lets them borrow the studio's cars, as long as they keep them clean and bring them back with the gas tank full."

  "Who's the actor that signed it out?"

  Benny glanced at the large, bold block letters. "Pierce Armstrong." He frowned. "That's bad luck. I mean, you can't very well talk to him about being a witness to anything when he's already in the hoosegow for a capital crime."

  "Check another date for me, would you?" Jack asked.

  "Sure."

  "May sixth."

  Benny nodded. "There was filming early that day, on location in Manhattan. Looks like a principal checked the car out again."

  "Who?"

  Benny adjusted his glasses, squinted at the small, fluid script. "Pierce Armstrong."

  Jack frowned. "But it couldn't have been. Armstrong was taken into custody the night of Vreen's stabbing, which was May fifth."

  "That's odd," Benny admitted.

  "Then you didn't witness the sign-out yourself?" Jack asked.

  "Not when they're on location. You'd have to talk to Sandy or the director, young guy named Delahunt." Benny checked his watch. "Delahunt's somewhere out on Long Island shooting workarounds. Now that Pierce Armstrong's in jail, he's trying to finish the film without him."

  "What about Sandy?" Jack asked. "He out on Long Island,

  too?"

  "Yeah, but not for the same reason. His wife just had a baby girl. He'll be off work for a few days at least."

  Jack nodded. "Okay, when will Delahunt be back here then?"

  "Tomorrow morning. But I doubt he'll remember what happened that day with the car." Benny shook his head.

  "Everyone's pretty frazzled right now with Irving dead and Pierce arrested, and when you're trying to wrap a picture one day just melts into all the others. That's why we keep logs and lists." Benny pointed to the clipboards stacked on his desk.

  "I understand," said Jack. "But I'd like to talk to the man anyway. Oh, and one more thing, Benny... "

  "Sure, Jack."

  "Is Hedda Geist on that picture, too?"

  "Of course. She's under contract. Every film she's been in has been a hit for us. No way we'd make a movie without her in a leading role."

  "So she's out there on Long Island, too?" Jack asked.

  Benny nodded.

  "Guess I'll come back tomorrow." Jack smiled. "That is, unless you've got another case for me tonight? How's the security around here since I solved your little problem a year

  ago?"

  "Tell you what, Jack, you did me a real favor finding that Larry Lightfingers on my staff. Put the fear of God into everybody. We haven't had one more disappearing prop since. The only thing's gone missing in months is a piece of wardrobe, and I'm pretty sure it just got misplaced."

  "What was it?" Jack asked.

  Benny shrugged. "Just one of Hedda's costumes. The silver gown she wore in Wrong Turn. We had two made exactly alike, 'cause one Hedda wore for the poster and the other we had to rip at the shoulder for the opening sequence. The ripped one we still got. The other one's lost." He waved his hand. "Believe me, Jack, it's no big deal. Nothing we'd need to hire you for. That thing looked expensive on screen, but it was actually pretty cheap goods."

  Jack's eyebrow arched, he glanced down at me. "Sounds a little like Hedda herself."

  We exited the building and headed back toward Jack's Packard.

  "Okay," I said, as we walked by a line of row houses. "What was the DA's mistress doing wearing Hedda's gown? Who gave it to her? And what was Pierce Armstrong doing in a car outside the girl's hotel? Was he sleeping with her, too? Do you suspect this Delahunt character of anything? Or Lester Sanford? And can you trust Benny?"

  "Keep your voice down, baby," Jack whispered. "We're being followed."

  My eyes widened as I realized Jack already had my back. He'd positioned himself directly behind me, shielding me from any blow or bullet that might come our way.

  "What are you going to do?" I whispered.

  "Well, I'm not waiting for him to decide," Jack replied. "You see that sharp turn off the sidewalk up ahead?"

  "The alley?"

  "Turn down it, baby."

  "What? Why?"

  "Question me again, and the next time I bring you back to my time, your gumshoe work will be limited to typing and filing."

  I got the message and kept moving forward. The sidewalk was deserted, the street quiet. The only sound was the click of my heels along the broken concrete. Jack's footsteps were silent as the grave, and apparently so were the steps of the man tail-lng us.

  A single car rumbled down the road. It cruised by us quickly. I waited for it to pass and then I turned into the alley.

  "Wait up, sweetheart!" Jack called loudly enough for our tail to hear. "What about that kiss you promised me?"

  We were between streetlights, so the shadows were pretty thick and the darkness overwhelmed me as I moved farther down the narrow passage. Suddenly, Jack's hot breath grazed my ear. "That's good, baby." His hand pressed my backside. "Keep walking." Then the warmth of his body vanished.

  I gnawed my lower lip as I continued walking forward. What I wanted to do was turn around and ask him what he planned on doing. But I knew a good detective wouldn't question his partner in a situation like this. A good shamus would assume his partner had a plan—and trust it.

  And that's exactly what I did: I trusted Jack and kept walking. My heels clicked loudly along the alley's cobble-stones, echoing up the walls of brick on either side of us. It smelled rank back here between the buildings, like spoiled food. I bumped a metal garbage can. Farther down the alley, a cat meowed loudly. I heard scurrying. Mice? Rats? I shuddered in the dark but kept going until I heard— Smack! Thwack! Smack!

  Fists were hitting flesh behind me. There was a loud grunt, a body fell, and I worried whether Jack was okay. But when I turned around, it was Jack's dark silhouette that was still standing.

  I backtracked quickly to get to Jack's side. The man who'd been following us was now crumpled against the alley wall. "Do you know him?" I asked.

  Jack shook his head. He crouched low and patted the man down, coming up with two handguns. "Here," he said, shoving one at me and then another. The first was a snub-nosed revolver. The second had a long, narrow barrel. I think it was a German Lugar.

  "Whoa, Ja
ck," I said, holding up my palms. "I don't know how to shoot these—"

  "Good because I just want you to hold them, okay?"

  "Oh, okay." I juggled the weapons, finally getting a firm hold of each gun butt.

  Jack noticed my awkward maneuverings. "Fingers off the triggers, okay?"

  I vigorously nodded.

  Jack turned back to the man. He was groaning now, coming to, and Jack started his interrogation. "Who are you?"

  The man shook his head. "Buzz off."

  Jack searched the man's pockets, pulled out a wallet, and flipped it open. "Well, well, well . . . this little license says you're a private dick, just like me . . . Egbert P. King."

  "Bert," the man muttered. "Nobody but my mother calls me Egbert."

  "Okay, Egbert, who sent you to tail me?" The man snorted, rubbed the back of his head. "You got it all wrong in the tail department, fella. I wasn't tailing you." Jack squinted. "Oh, you weren't?"

  "No. See, I saw that piece o' tail you're with—" he pointed at me—"and I thought I'd grab me some, too. She's not too expensive, is she? Looks like cheap goods to me."

  Jack's meaty fist cocked back. "You son of a—" "Jack, don't!"

  Too late. He'd knocked the other PI unconscious. I sighed. "That wasn't too smart, Jack. Now he can't tell you a thing."

  Jack grabbed the guy's lapels and shook him. "Wake up, shitbird."

  The man groaned.

  As Jack shook him again, I heard something suspicious. In the street beyond the alley, a car was rumbling closer, only it wasn't rolling at a normal pace. It was cruising slowly, as if the driver were looking for something or someone.

  "Jack, listen," I whispered.

  "You made a mistake, Shepard," muttered the PI named Egbert. "A big one."

  Just then, three gunshots came in succession. Someone was opening fire on us.

  It was too dark to see anything but a few white flashes from a dark car window. Above us, an old fire escape pinged as bullets ricocheted off the rusting structure.

  Jack reacted instantly. While I was still gaping in shock, he was pulling out his own weapon, returning fire, and pushing me farther into the darkness.

  "Move, baby! Go!"

  I did, stumbling farther down the alley a few feet before I realized I was holding weapons, too! I dropped the revolver into my pocket, and pointed the Lugar with two hands.

  Before I could fire, Jack was next to me, pushing the gun's barrel toward the ground. "I said run. Not shoot!"

  "But—"

  "Let's go!" Jack hustled me the length of the alley and we turned down the next street. Then he stashed me in a dark doorway and told me to stay put until he returned. A few minutes later, he was back.

  "They're gone," he told me, returning his weapon back to the shoulder holster inside his jacket. "Egbert and his ride both hightailed it out of here. But I'm not surprised."

  "Why?"

  "Those shots landed a mile over our heads. Whoever fired them didn't want to hurt us. They just wanted to scare us." "But who hired them?"

  "Something tells me I'll find out soon enough."

  "Here," I said, holding out Egbert's weapons. "You want these?"

  Jack took them from me. He checked the safeties then pocketed them both. "You did good, sweetheart. Stop shaking." "I thought we were dead."

  Jack touched my cheek, gave me the slightest smile. "Only one of us is dead, Penelope. And I'm glad about that."

  I was, too, because life was short. I forgot sometimes, but this moment reminded me.

  Jack reached over and drew me into his arms. His touch wasn't playful, like it had been in the car; it was tender, his expression ardent. This time, I didn't pull away; and when his mouth covered mine, I closed my eyes and let him drive

  CHAPTER 12

  Murder by the Book

  Hmm. Next time I come out with you, I'm gonna bring along an extra set of nerves.

  —Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye, 1950

  "PEN, WAKE UP! Come on, wake up!"

  Someone was patting my hand. I tasted dirt, felt a sharp pain in my back and a dull throbbing in my head. "Where am I?"

  "You're in the woods beyond Charity Point," a male voice replied. "Don't you remember?"

  "What year is it?" I murmured, wondering where Jack had gone.

  "Uh-oh, she's acting goofy, Fiona."

  I opened my eyes to find Seymour crouched over me, his face pinched with concern. I tried to sit up.

  "Wait, maybe you shouldn't move," he said. "Something might be broken."

  "I've got to sit up, Seymour. Rocks are digging into my spine, and I think I have a bug in my blouse!"

  Seymour called over his shoulder. "I think maybe Pen has a concussion."

  I pushed Seymour away. "I don't have a concussion. And who are you talking to, anyway?" I sat up, did a double-take.

  Fiona was pale faced, standing beside the mud-splattered golf cart. Grass stains streaked the cart's bright finish. Torn vines clung to the headlights and dangled from the rearview mirror. A low-hanging branch had ripped a ragged hole in the pink-and-white pokka-dotted canvas top. Taking the golf cart off-road and into the woods had obviously exacted a toll on the fragile vehicle.

  "Let me guess," I said. "Seymour was driving."

  "No, it was me," Fiona replied. "I saw Seymour follow you into the woods. I knew I couldn't catch up unless I had wheels. I drove up the trail and picked up Seymour first. We heard you calling in the distance, but we couldn't find you. Then we heard you scream."

  "That's when I grabbed the wheel and made Fiona go off-trail, right through the brush," Seymour said. "And we finally found you."

  "I appreciate it."

  Seymour and Fiona helped me to my feet. I gingerly touched my head, groaned when I felt the lump above my forehead.

  "No blood," Seymour said, inspecting my skull. "Just a jumbo-sized egg." He stepped back, pulled a twig from my auburn hair.

  "I think I'm okay," I said.

  Seymour frowned. "What the hell happened, Pen? Why did you run into the woods like some nutcase?"

  I told them about seeing Dr. Rubino from the top of the lighthouse, then following the man into the woods. I glossed over the part about getting lost. Left out the crazy dream of tracking down clues with Jack Shepard in 1948 Queens, New York, and simply told them that a speeding biker ran me down.

  "I'm going to speak with Chief Ciders again," Fiona said angrily. "This is unacceptable. It's trespassing. How long before one of these careless dirt bikers runs down one of my guests!"

  Fiona helped me brush off the remaining dirt and leaves from my hair and clothes. "Did you recognize the biker?" she asked. "Someone you maybe saw around town?"

  I shook my head. "I don't know . . . it happened so fast."

  Fiona pressed. "What do you remember?"

  I closed my eyes, massaged my throbbing temples. "Darth Vader," I said.

  Fiona whispered to Seymour. "What does she mean, do you think? That he was all in black?"

  Seymour snorted. "Well, I doubt she means he was waving a lightsaber."

  "He was a big man," I continued, my eyes still closed as I struggled to replay that split-second flash of memory. "He wore a black leather jacket. His head was completely covered with a darkly tinted visor, and his motorcycle was big. I don't know what brand it was, but it was black and chrome." I sighed and opened my eyes. "That's really all I remember . . . hey, wait a minute!"

  I turned to Seymour. "Do you remember seeing Hedda's granddaughter, Harmony?"

  "Sure." Seymour smirked. "I'm a man and I'm breathing. How could I forget seeing her?"

  "I meant, do you remember when we saw her at Mr. Koh's fruit bins this morning? Do you remember what happened?"

  Seymour's eyes bulged. "Oh, right! A big motorcyclist in a black leather jacket was flirting with her." He paused and then shrugged. "Of course, there are a lot of motorcyclists in the area, especially in the spring and summer. He might be the same guy, or he might not. We need more to go
on."

  I nodded. "Right now we just have to go."

  Seymour blinked. "Go where?"

  "Back to the store." I rubbed my forehead. "I may have taken one in the cranium, but I haven't forgotten that we need to take a look at Dr. Irene Lilly's brand-new book."

  IT WAS NEARLY four o'clock when Seymour dropped me off in front of Buy the Book. We'd taken his car to Finch Inn because mine was still crippled by a dead battery.

  "I'll be back as soon as I find parking," Seymour said and pulled away from the curb.

  The store was crowded with customers, which was certainly gratifying. But I felt a little guilty for having left Sadie and Mina alone for so many hours on such a busy day. On the other hand, Sadie was all for my investigating Irene Lilly's death, and that's what I'd been doing.

  As soon as I entered the store, Brainert Parker cornered me. His brown hair was neatly combed and his scarecrow frame was dressed as smartly as ever. He had no bow tie today, but his khaki pants displayed a knife-sharp crease and his salmon-colored button-down appeared to be pressed within an inch of its life beneath his favorite blue blazer.

  "Pen, you've got to tell me what happened this morning," he said in a whisper. "I tried to get the details out of Sadie, but she's been busy with the store. She simply told me that Dr. Lilly had a fatal accident, and I should talk to you."

  "Yes, yes. How much do you know?"

  "I know that the woman died in a fall from a ladder."

  "And what do you know about her new book?"

  "Excuse me?" Brainert frowned. "What does that have to do with her accident?"

  "Listen to me, Brainert. I'm convinced that what happened to Dr. Lilly in our store this morning was no accident. I'm sure she was murdered and the scene was staged to make it appear as if she died in a fall."

  Eyes wide, Brainert gripped my arm. "You'd better fill me in."

  "I will. But first we have to take a look inside Dr. Lilly's new book. I'm betting it will give us a clue why someone wants her dead."

  Brainert scanned the sales floor. "Where is the book? I don't see it on display."

  "Because of what happened to her, we decided to keep the shipment boxed up in the storeroom." I waved at Aunt Sadie and called to her. "If you need me, I'll be in with the stock."