The Ghost and the Femme Fatale - Haunted Bookshop 04

by Alice Kimberley

  "True . . . Dr. Lilly did bring up some pretty ugly details from her youth. With Hedda and her family trying so hard to maintain the upper-class image, the book could prove embarrassing..."

  Yeah, baby. It could.

  I swallowed uneasily, seeing a brand-new motive for Hedda to want Lilly killed—along with the book's publicity.

  But could Hedda have done away with Dr. Lilly all by herself? Brainert had characterized Hedda as frail and old. While her age was obvious, I wondered how "frail" she really was.

  Time to go fishing, sweetheart.

  "Right," I told Jack. Then I turned to Hedda.

  "We have quite a lot of customers queued up for your signing in the Events room, Ms. Geist. How's your strength? Do you feel up to this?"

  Hedda waved her hand, flashing more platinum on two diamond rings. "I still ride two hours every day on my horse farm," she said with a proud little smile. "I think I can handle scribbling my name on a few books."

  She gestured to someone behind me. I turned to find her granddaughter, Harmony, standing there. The young woman looked as stunning as ever in a belly-baring white tank and a low-riding skirt of designer denim. Her layered blonde hair was loose, her pretty feet at the end of long, tanned legs, were manicured with pink nail polish and caressed by sandals of Italian leather.

  I greeted her, counting at least three small groups of young men who were either gaping openly in her direction or glancing furtively at her backside while whispering among themselves. I didn't see Dixon Gallagher among the admiring males—and none of them looked big enough to be that Darth Vader biker who'd run me down in the woods near Charity Point.

  Ignoring the lump that still throbbed high on my forehead, I clapped my hands and brightly suggested, "Shall we move into the Events room?"

  Both women followed me into the large space, where a crowd had been marshaled into a civilized queue, thanks to Seymour Tarnish. "Don't push, people! There are plenty of Hedda's books available. I said, don't push! That means you, buster!"

  The fans were all ages and they began to applaud and whistle when they saw Hedda enter the room. The old actress smiled, obviously pleased, and gave her adoring fans a royal wave. I showed her where to sit.

  She took her time settling herself into the padded armchair behind the polished walnut table. "Is there water, Mrs. McClure?"

  "Yes, of course." I presented her with a sealed bottle. She eyed it with a frown of obvious disapproval. I got the hint, opened it, and poured it into a paper cup.

  Hedda took a sip and cleared her throat. "Now . . . where are my special pens? Harmony!"

  Harmony stepped up and provided them. "Here you are, Grandma."

  "Thank you, Harmony. You're such a dear! Enjoy yourself now, darling. Why don't you select some books for your summer reading. My treat."

  Harmony smiled, nodded at me, and wandered off toward the selling floor—the eyes of just about every male in the room watching her leave.

  The signing went fairly smoothly after that, with the exception of a plump older man in a sports jacket who attempted to monopolize Hedda with gushing tales of his fandom.

  "...and I have every poster on my wall and a signed photograph from the publicity department of Gotham Features. Oh, how I treasure that photo. I can't believe I'm here talking to you. To finally smell your perfume is a thrill for me." The man made a show of inhaling the air. "Ah... that delicate orange-blossom scent. I read in your book how a French admirer sent you a bottle of Vouloir from Paris, and it's the only perfume you've ever worn since. Your signature scent. I can finally smell it for myself. Intoxicating! Now, let me ask you about playing opposite Pierce Armstrong in—"

  "Okay, buddy!" Seymour shouted. "Hedda signed your book. Now move along! Give someone else a chance!"

  As the crowd dwindled down, I stepped up to Hedda.

  "More water, Ms. Geist?"

  "Yes . . . unless you have a good bottle of California Sauvignon Blanc handy?" She smiled. "My late husband had friends who owned a vineyard in Napa. I'm a sucker for a good Sav."

  "Sorry, no wine," I said. "We tried serving alcohol once at a signing but our local councilwoman fined us for not having a liquor license."

  "What a shame."

  I opened a fresh bottle of water and cleared my throat. With the signing almost over, I knew this was the best chance I had to ask the former actress a few more questions.

  "I was wondering, Ms. Geist," I began, as I refilled her cup. "Did you hear about Dr. Lilly?"

  "Terrible business . . ." Hedda shook her head, but her eyes remained down, focused on the table and the book she was signing. "A tragic accident to be sure . . ."

  "Just like last evening," I replied. "That large, heavy speaker falling onto the stage."

  "Oh, yes!" She straightened immediately and met my eyes. "I was quite put out. It could have killed me!"

  "Or Dr. Lilly," I noted.

  "Oh, no!" Hedda frowned. "You're mistaken, Mrs. McClure. Dr. Lilly stepped aside to let me speak. She was completely clear of danger when that speaker careened toward the stage and nearly finished me!"

  With wide dramatic eyes Hedda stared at me a moment, then she turned back to the crowd, her expression instantly transforming into a warm smile as she waved the next customer forward.

  "Come, come!" she said brightly. "Step up!" "Okay," I silently told Jack, "that was weird." Jack snorted. Once a diva, always a diva. "Or drama queen... "

  A rose by any other name . . . still wants the spotlight.

  Clearing my throat, I stepped closer to the former actress. "I was wondering something else, Ms. Geist," I said quietly as she signed the next customer's book. "Did you know about Dr. Lilly's new publication?"

  "What's that, Mrs. McClure? You say Dr. Lilly had a new book?"

  "Yes, but it wasn't a film study like her other titles. This book was a biography of your life and career, and it made quite a few rather sensational charges at the end of it."

  "Is that so?" Hedda finished signing and handed the book back to the young woman. She waved the next customer forward, a young man wearing a St. Francis College T-shirt.

  "You know, it's sad." She glanced at me, then back down at the book she was signing. "There are so many desperate writers out there like Irene Lilly, hacking out some story that wouldn't have existed in the first place if it weren't for people like me, people with innate talent who risked and toiled to become recognized figures. They're rather like parasites, don't you think?"

  "Dr. Lilly claims in this new book that Irving Vreen's death wasn't an accident. She claims that Pierce Armstrong was set up and betrayed. She claims that what happened at the Porter-house restaurant in 1948 was calculated, premeditated. Cold-blooded murder."

  Hedda ignored me for a moment, handed the book she'd just signed to the young man and waved at the next person to step up. It was another young man, a very handsome one wearing a fraternity jacket. She winked flirtatiously at the boy and laughed.

  "What do you think, young man?" she teased. "Have I still got it?"

  He laughed and nodded vigorously, his cheeks reddening. She giggled like a young girl, then opened his book and began to sign.

  "You know, Mrs. McClure . . ." She looked my way, then back to the book. "Another ambitious writer once tried to stir the pot, just like Dr. Lilly. This was back in 1966, before you were even born."

  "What happened?" I pressed.

  "This young man, a magazine journalist, tracked me down, tried to shock me with allegations and pointed questions. I had nothing to say, of course. He dug and dug but found nothing and simply gave up. Nobody really cared anymore, you see? It was all played out already. Irving Vreen was long dead by then. And nobody really cares about the dead. To the living, they're just . . . irrelevant."

  Speak for yourself, you old bag!

  "Easy, Jack."

  I'll show the self-satisfied biddy how irrelevant the dead are!

  "No, Jack. No more haunting the customers! You promised!" Just
a little levitating table action, baby. Maybe blow some frigid wind up her pristine pants. "Jack! Behave!"

  Why? If I give her a heart attack, maybe she'll finally see how irrelevant she really is.

  Hedda smiled and shook her head, as if amused. "Later, in the seventies," she went on, "there was a famous episode of an old television police show that was a thinly disguised version of what happened that night at the Porterhouse. The show cast me as the kind of femme fatale I played on screen, tried to say that I planned Irving's death. But that was a television show. Complete fiction. Just like Dr. Lilly's book..."

  My brow wrinkled. "I thought you said that you didn't know about her book."

  "I don't. I just . . ." Hedda shrugged. "I simply assumed from what you've told me that she was trying to do what that journalist had tried to do: dredge up an ugly incident for her own gain."

  "I haven't read the entire book yet," I admitted. "But Dr. Lilly may have found proof to substantiate her charges."

  Hedda sighed. "Well, if she didn't put it in the book, I guess we'll never know, will we? I mean..." The elderly actress fixed her cool green gaze on me. "We can't very well ask her now, can we?"

  "No," I said, holding Hedda's fixed stare, "we can't."

  The actress nodded and turned back to her signing.

  "But," I added after a moment, "I'm sure someone will be asking Pierce Armstrong about it this weekend."

  Hedda froze the moment I mentioned the name of her former leading man. Her pen stopped moving. Hedda G— was as far as her small, fluid script got. It took a few more seconds for her to finish writing her own name.

  "Pierce Armstrong?" she finally repeated after clearing her throat. "I'm sorry. What's that you're saying, Mrs. McClure? I think I misheard you."

  "Pierce Armstrong is going to appear at the Quindicott Film Noir Festival sometime this weekend. He's a surprise guest."

  "But . . . how can that be? Nobody's heard from Mr. Armstrong in decades . . . I mean... his name disappeared off the guild lists, and... I... I didn't realize that he was even still alive."

  "I haven't seen him yet myself. He's in town though. Professor Brainert Parker told me he's staying as a guest in Dean Pepper's home."

  "Well, it's been years, I must say. More like a lifetime. I can't imagine what Pierce would think, seeing me after all these decades . . . but I'd be very interested in saying hello to him" Hedda's smile appeared tight. She lowered her voice.

  Through gritted teeth, she asked: "How many more books must I sign here, Mrs. McClure?"

  I glanced up at the crowd. Only about a half-dozen more people were lined up. I signaled to Seymour. "That young woman in the blue shirt is the last one in line. Let's keep it that way, okay? We're done after her."

  Seymour saluted. "Aye, aye, Captain."

  Hedda signed two more books and then an attractive, dark haired man stepped up—he had sleepy eyes and a yellow J. Crew Windbreaker draped over his arm. I recognized him instantly. And I noticed with interest that he was no longer carrying his bulky canvas backpack.

  "Hello there, Hedda." The man's voice was as smooth as I remembered. "Would you mind signing a book for your biggest fan?"

  "Dr. Rubino!" Hedda immediately brightened. "What a delightful surprise!"

  "The delight is seeing you here," he said. "I was in town on business, and I almost forgot that this weekend was the film noir festival you were telling me about at your last appointment." Randall Rubino's sleepy dark eyes glanced up at me then, and he smiled. "Penelope here was good enough to let me know about your signing." He handed the book over. "Would you mind?"

  "Mind? I'm flattered! And more than happy to oblige with a personal inscription... "

  Rubino nodded and set down the book. As Hedda went about scribbling a note in her small, fluid handwriting, I suddenly remembered something.

  "Jack?" I silently whispered.

  Yeah, baby?

  "Have you noticed how small Hedda's handwriting is?" Yeah, baby, an hour ago. I was waiting to see how long it'd take you.

  "In the dream you gave me, Benny had to squint to make out the second signature in the Gotham Features log book. The first Pierce Armstrong signature was in big, bold block letters, the second was small, fluid script."

  So either Armstrong likes to write his name two different ways, or Hedda signed out the second car herself and wrote down Pierce's name to keep herself out of the written record.

  "So what was she doing picking up the DA's mistress at the Hotel Chester? Was she a friend of the girl's? Isn't that a little coincidental—since the DA was at the Porterhouse the very night of Vreen's stabbing? And what's with Dr. Rubino showing up here after his run in the woods? I still think it was strangely coincidental that I spotted him near the lighthouse so soon after the burglary."

  After a few more charming but fairly insubstantial remarks to Hedda, Dr. Rubino gave me another smile, then picked up his signed book and stepped away. I watched his back as he wandered toward the Event room's exit.

  Why are you just standing there, baby? You're not letting him go, are you? Get your panties in gear, and go brace the man!

  My eyes wide from Jack's balling-out, I hastily excused myself from Hedda's side and rushed across the room to catch Rubino.

  "Doctor? Pardon me! Dr. Rubino, I'd like to speak with you in private."

  Randall Rubino turned around and calmly nodded, as if he wasn't one bit surprised to be collared. "Of course, Penelope, of course."

  He almost sounded resigned. I pointed to a quiet corner of the Events room. We strolled over there, and Rubino immediately started talking.

  "I can't say that I'm surprised by this, Penelope."

  "Really?"

  "I don't think you should be embarrassed, either." "I'm not."

  "Good. What happened earlier was quite a shock. Anyone would have reacted the way you did."

  I blinked, hardly able to believe getting the man to talk was going to be this easy. "That's nice of you to say, Dr. Rubino, considering the situation."

  Strangely enough, Dr. Rubino then handed me Hedda's book to hold while he reached into his jacket pocket for a pad and pen.

  "Oh, Doctor. You don't have to write it down. Just talk to me, tell me everything. Get it all off your chest."

  The doctor froze. "What are you talking about?"

  "What do you mean? I'm talking about seeing you at the Charity Point Lighthouse and running after you into the woods. I wanted to question you then, but I lost you. I assume you have something to confess, and I'm glad you're making it easy."

  "Now I really don't know what you're talking about," said Rubino.

  "Well what were you talking about?"

  "Writing you a prescription for Valium, of course!"

  "I thought you were going to explain why you were running away from a recently burglarized bungalow. A bungalow belonging to a woman who you declared died of an accident— when it was not an accident at all."

  "Penelope, I really do think you need some medication." Rubino began scribbling on his prescription pad.

  "Don't evade the question, Doctor. What were you doing at the Charity Point Lighthouse?"

  "If you must know, I was hiking the area, looking for a good spot to fish. I did notice a NO TRESPASSING sign near the light-house and that's why I hurried away. I had no idea I was on private property." He shook his head. "I'm surprised to learn you saw me—or that you were trying to chase me down."

  I studied Rubino's knitted brows. "You fish?"

  "Yes, the area near your town has some of the best oceanside fishing in the state. When Chief Ciders called me here today, I packed my gear."

  "Oh, you packed your gear, did you? Then where is it?"

  "In the trunk of my car. Where else?" Rubino ripped off the prescription and handed it to me. "Now if you'll give me back my signed book, I'll be on my way."

  "But... "

  Dr. Rubino snatched the book from my hands. "I'd advise you to get that prescription filled right a
way, Penelope. The stress is obviously getting to you." Then he turned on his heel and began to walk away. "And don't take it with alcohol," he tossed over his shoulder.

  Congratulations, baby, your gumshoeing just got hinky.

  "Well, you weren't exactly a big help."

  There was no saving that interrogation, honey. It was about the absolute worst I've seen in all my years—and I'm including the dead ones.

  "You don't need to rub it in."

  Tell you what: I'll make it up to you.

  "What? Another night tailing cheating husbands while drinking martinis stirred not shaken?"

  No baby, another lead. Turn around and take a look at who else seems to be Dr. Rubino's friend.

  Through the archway connecting the Events room to the store's selling floor, I saw Randall Rubino speaking with someone. I took a few steps closer to the room's exit and finally saw who: Harmony Middleton. The two were standing very close, their heads bent together in private conversation. As I watched, it appeared the good doctor was growing impatient, even angry.

  A lover's spat? Jack proposed.

  "Could be," I replied.

  Suddenly, Rubino stepped back, grasped young Harmony's upper arm, and pulled her away from the crowded part of the store.

  Get closer, baby. Follow them.

  I did. Careful to stay clear of their sightline, I tailed them to a quiet aisle near the back corner, where I stocked a collection of children's and young adult mysteries for the families in the area. I peeked around the endcap display of Encyclopedia Brown books—the ones Spencer had devoured back in fourth grade.

  "Come on, Randy... you know I need it."

  It was Harmony's voice and it sounded whiney, like a brat who wanted candy.

  "Let's not go down that road again, Harmony. You remember what happened the last time."

  "You're being difficult. Can't you see my side?"

  "Let's table this discussion. It's not the time or place. Talk to me another time, all right?"