The Ghost and the Femme Fatale - Haunted Bookshop 04

by Alice Kimberley

  There were more posters as well as props and pieces of costuming either framed or in glass cases. I noticed a one-sheet and lobby cards hanging near an arched alcove and stopped dead. A familiar face was staring back. The actress in the picture was very young and no raving beauty—more like the girl next door with caramel-colored curls and a dimple in her chin.

  "My god," I cried aloud. "That's—"

  It's her, doll! District Attorney Nathan Burwell's paramour. The chippy from the Hotel Chester!

  "Ah," Maggie said, obviously responding to my outburst. "You're admiring the restored one-sheet for Man Trap"

  "Oh, uh... y-yes," I stammered.

  "It's really something," Maggie continued. "There's only one more like it in the whole world. That one resides at San Fernando University's film history archive . . ."

  As Maggie talked, I pretended to examine the Man Trap one-sheet, but I was really checking out the scene on one of the eight surrounding lobby cards. The face on the scantily clad girl standing next to Sybil Sand was unmistakable. It was the same girl I'd seen in my dream of Jack's past, the girl at the Porter-house with Nathan Burwell.

  "Who's this actress?" I asked aloud.

  Seymour stepped closer. "I think she's in the nightclub scenes in that movie. Yeah, a cigarette girl with a few lines. She speaks to Hedda Geist, and then another actor makes a comment about how the girl's way too young to be working in a place like that. Never saw the actress before or since. Just some extra, I guess."

  "Hey, look at this," Brainert said, pointing to a yellowing booklet resting inside a glass case. "This is an original souvenir program for Man Trap."

  "It's unusual to have one for a film like this," Maggie said. "But the studio wanted to promote Hedda—"

  The doorbell buzzed, interrupting her. Maggie excused herself and headed for the foyer.

  "Quick," I hissed when the woman was out of earshot. "Open the case and let me see that booklet."

  Brainert's eyes widened in horror. "What!"

  "Open that case," I insisted. "Even if you have to break it open."

  Seymour reached out a hand and lifted the lid. "Relax, it's unlocked."

  I gently removed the crumbling press book from its display case and carefully turned the brittle pages. The complete cast list was on the third page.

  "Cigarette Girl played by Wilma Brody," I read aloud.

  Seymour blinked. "So what?"

  "I concur," Brainert said. "Who is this Wilma Brody and why should we care?"

  Before I could make up an explanation, we were interrupted by a woman's voice, shrill with anger. Maggie's reply came in a reasonable but icy tone.

  "Oh God," Brainert said, cringing. "It's Virginia . . . the former Mrs. Wendell Pepper."

  I placed the press book back into its case and closed the lid. In the living room, the voices became louder.

  "I think we'd better do something," Brainert said. "It's turning into an argument."

  Seymour backed away, palms high, head shaking. "Count me out. Ex-wives scare the crap out of me."

  "All right," Brainert said. Squaring his shoulders, he led the way to the living room. I followed, Seymour brought up the rear.

  "I'm looking for Wendell," cried the shrill voice from the living room. "Not his latest mistress!"

  "I'm nobody's mistress, Mrs. Pepper," Maggie civilly replied, "and I told you, Wendell is not here. Try calling him at—"

  "I've tried calling him, dozens of times! He's ducking me, the worm, but I won't tolerate—"

  Virginia Pepper looked up when we entered the living room. The ex-wife of the St. Francis dean was tall and willowy with a long, slender neck. Her blonde hair was pulled back tightly, exposing a great deal of Botoxed forehead. Her eyebrows appeared to slant demonically when she spied Brainert, Seymour, and me. Then her gaze began to bounce back and forth among all of us, as if she were trying to decide who to target first.

  "Hello, Virginia," said Brainert, boldly stepping into the line of fire.

  My gay, academic friend may have had a physique like Ichabod Crane's, but he had the heart of a Round Table knight, always willing to withstand slings and arrows for his friends.

  The woman's predatory eyes narrowed. "Busybody Brainert," she said, her voice dripping with contempt. "Showing gawkers around this mausoleum, are you?"

  Brainert's eyes narrowed. "No need to be rude, Virginia. I really don't think—"

  "I recognize her," said Virginia, moving on to me. "You're that shopkeeper, the woman who runs that bookstore with her old aunt on Cranberry Street. My friend the councilwoman's mentioned you."

  "Councilwoman?" I said. "Which one? You don't mean Marjorie Binder- Smith?"

  "Yes, of course. There are other women on the council, of course, but she's the only one with any vision in this backward little town. She says you're a real troublemaker. Probably stupid, too, if you're involved with my ex-husband."

  Cripes, this dame's one annoying harridan. No wonder ol' Wendell's not returning her calls. Who'd want to talk to a broad with a stick up her—

  "Stop being a bitch, Virginia," Brainert snapped, stepping even farther forward. "Just tell me what you need from Wendell, without the insults."

  "A check!" she cried, veins flashing blue in her pale neck.

  I cringed, stepping back in an autonomic response. This was the first time I'd met the woman, but her barely contained neurosis reminded me too much of my wealthy, pill-popping, perpetually dissatisfied in-laws, the ones Calvin had looked to for providing a functional foundation in life.

  And look how well that worked out for him.

  "Oh, God, Jack."

  You want me to handle this, baby?

  "No. Let her go."

  Okay. Jack snorted. If you say so.

  Virginia stomped her foot. "Wendell promised he'd help with our son's graduation party! Now June's almost here, and I haven't seen a cent! He keeps crying poverty, but just look at all this junk he's put around the house! Maybe I should just come in here one day, take a few things, and sell them on eBay. Then I'll have my money!"

  "I'm sure it's an oversight," Brainert calmly replied. "Wendell's very proud of his son. He's mentioned setting up a generous trust fund for him. I'm sure he means to give you the money for the party. It's just that he's been busy with the theater opening and the festival—"

  "That theater. That damn theater!" Virginia sneered. "I wouldn't be sorry to see it burn down."

  For a moment, you could hear a pin drop. Then Maggie Kline stepped forward.

  "You've gotten your answer, Mrs. Pepper," she said. "Wendell's not here, and frankly, we have things to do, so I'll show you to the door."

  Virginia purpled. "I used to live here," she cried with a toss of her head. "I know where the front door is."

  Maggie's eyes locked with hers. "Then use it."

  With a huff, Virginia Pepper whirled on her flats and strode to the exit. All of a sudden she stumbled, awkwardly careening right into the closed door, her Botoxed forehead hitting the wood with a sharp thump. With a string of curses that would have made the Fisherman Detective blush, she opened it, stormed out, and slammed the door behind her.

  Oops, said Jack. Guess there was a wrinkle in the carpet that wasn't there before.

  "Jack! What did you do?"

  I let her go, like you asked, doll. Right into the front door.

  "Well, that was pleasant," Maggie said, her eyes dancing with amusement.

  "Now you see why I'm a bachelor," Seymour said.

  Maggie glanced at her wristwatch and faced Brainert. "Could you give me a lift to the Movie Town? It's a nice walk, but I'm running late."

  "Of course," Brainert replied. "Are you rushing to catch a film?"

  "No," she said, with a raised eyebrow. "I want to be there for Hedda Geist's appearance. It's scheduled right after Pierce Armstrong's. If she arrives on time, the two of them will finally meet after all these years. Now that would be something worth seeing, don't you agree?"

>   We all did agree. And as Maggie ran around, looking for her keys and handbag, I moved toward the house's vestibule. With the front door closed, I noticed an alcove off the entryway that I hadn't seen on our way in. It was the sort of recessed niche where a homeowner would typically display an antique grand-father clock. But there was no clock here.

  A thin, rectangular glass case the height of a coffin occupied the space. Inside it hung a full-length evening gown, clearly a preserved piece of wardrobe. I moved closer, my eyes widening, as I realized the dress was made of shimmering silver satin. It had a plunging neckline and a tiny bow at the bodice.

  "Jack, I can't believe it," I whispered. "It's the silver gown from Wrong Turn, the one that wasn't ripped at the shoulder!"

  The one that turned up on Wilma Brody the night Irving Vreen was stabbed to death. Yeah, baby, I can see that. I just have one question.

  "You don't have to tell me, Jack. I have the same question."

  Good. Then maybe you can ask Wendell Pepper where the hell he found Hedda Geist's missing gown.

  CHAPTER 15

  Trapdoor Trap

  I killed him for money and for a woman. I didn't get the money. And I didn't get the woman.

  —Double Indemnity, 1944

  AN EXPLOSION OF laughter followed by a burst of applause greeted our ears the moment we entered the lobby of the Movie Town Theater. The noise came from inside the auditorium, where Pierce Armstrong was speaking to a boisterous crowd of loyal fans.

  Brainert's grin stretched from one ear to the other. "Sounds like a packed house," he crowed.

  "Sounds like Pierce Armstrong is on stage right now," Seymour cried, racing ahead of us.

  Maggie Kline laughed. "That guy is really into the Fisherman Detective thing."

  "Seymour is a particularly odd individual," Brainert muttered.

  Maggie smiled. "In Hollywood, he'd fit right in."

  "Mr. Parker! Mr. Parker, sir . . ." A tall young man was waving Brainert over to the concession stand. He wore a white cap and white shirt with MOVIE TOWN THEATER emblazoned across the pocket in bold red letters.

  Brainert frowned. "Excuse me. Our head of concessions is calling me. I'm afraid I have some important managerial business to attend to."

  "Thank goodness you're here, Professor Parker," the young man called, "we're almost out of Raisinets again!"

  Brainert glanced unhappily at me. "I'll join you shortly."

  As he headed to the stand, Maggie and I followed Seymour into the crowded auditorium. On the way I glanced at the gold-framed bulletin board, where the day's schedule of events was posted.

  Hedda Geist had appeared on stage earlier in the day for a Q&A with Barry Yello. She was due to speak again in less than fifteen minutes, providing a short personal introduction to Tight Spot, another of her Gotham Features films.

  Another ripple of laughter from the auditorium told me that Pierce Armstrong was still going strong. He would most likely be on stage when Hedda arrived, so it appeared the two former lovers were indeed about to meet face-to-face for the first time in sixty years.

  "Hurry," Seymour called. "I can't wait to see this."

  Me either, I thought.

  We entered the theater during a lengthy question from a middle-aged man, who'd stood up from the second row to deliver it. On stage, the elderly Pierce Armstrong sat behind a table spread with a white cloth. His features were hidden behind oversized copper-framed glasses and his hair was white and rather long, ending in ringlets that rested on the shoulders of his red patterned shirt. The shirts collar was buttoned up and encircled by a bolo-style Western tie.

  The fan's rambling question finally ended—something about location shooting. Pierce leaned forward toward the microphone, adjusted his large copper glasses, and raised a pale hand.

  "We almost never went out on the ocean," he began in a strong voice. "The first time we did was for O'Bannon Against the Bund, where we worked off the coast of Fire Island. On the first take of my fight with Ramon Lassiter, I fell off the boat and actually had to be rescued! Can you believe it? After that . . ."

  Gales of laughter drowned out the rest of his story.

  "Hey, I was a cowboy, not a sailor!" Armstrong cried with agrin.

  We finally found seats in the rear of the theater, but not together. Seymour sat in one row. Maggie and I behind him, right on the center aisle.

  I noticed Dr. Wendell Pepper sitting beside the old man on stage. The sixty-something dean was looking relaxed and attractive, his thick salt-and-pepper hair was casually finger-combed to the side, his white dress shirt was open at the collar, and his casual, chestnut brown sports jacket hung loosely off his broad-shouldered form.

  "All of the Fisherman Detective screenplays centered around crime on the docks, and we mostly used locations near our studio's offices in Long Island City, Queens," Pierce Armstrong continued. "We filmed at night, not to set any kind of mood. It was because those docks were damn busy in the daytime. We were only allowed access to one pier, so that's why you keep seeing the same scenery over and over again in every movie. We needed an animal wrangler, too. Not because we used any animals. He was there to keep the stray dogs at bay!"

  The audience burst out laughing again.

  "Of course, we had a mock-up of the Sea Witch. We used that on the sound stage at Astoria Studios, which Paramount rented out to us. The crew would rock the prop boat and toss buckets of water into the scene. Those guys really got a kick out of dousing me!"

  The question-and-answer session continued for another twenty minutes. Throughout most of his presentation, Armstrong was lively and animated. Near the end, however, he seemed to tire. Finally Dean Pepper rose and called a halt to the fun. Some folks rose out of their seats to rush the stage.

  "No autographs, please," Dr. Pepper warned. "Mr. Armstrong will be signing tomorrow. Check the schedule of events on the bulletin board for the exact time."

  After some groans of disappointment, then big applause, Pepper stepped behind Pierce Armstrong and took hold of the man's chair. That's when I realized the former action star and stunt man was partially confined to a wheelchair.

  Beside me, Maggie sighed. "No sign of Hedda. I guess the big meeting isn't going to happen. Not yet, anyway. I'm sure they'll meet sometime this weekend. Excuse me, I've really got to use the ladies'. Do you need to?"

  I shook my head. "I'll save your seat," I promised her.

  Maggie got up and joined the crush. In the next row, Seymour stood up and stretched, then faced me. "Man, Pierce Armstrong was really funny. I couldn't believe that story about Howard Hawks...."

  As Seymour continued to chatter away, the theater partially emptied. Like Maggie, people took advantage of the break to visit the restrooms or concession stand. I spied Bud Napp in the wings: the young Dixon Gallagher was with him, and the two appeared to be tinkering with the sound system. I noticed the new speakers sat on the floor on either side of the stage. Bud was obviously determined to avoid any more falling speaker "accidents."

  Dean Pepper and a young usher started transferring Pierce Armstrong's wheelchair from the stage to the auditorium floor. On stage, Pierce waited for them to finish, his wrinkled hands clutching the black vinyl handles of an aluminum walker.

  Finally, big Barry Yello appeared. The young Webmaster with the blond ponytail walked on stage from the wings. He and Dean Pepper each took the old man's arm and guided Pierce down the short staircase and back into his chair. Just as Dr. Pepper began to push the chair up the center aisle, Hedda Geist-Middleton entered the auditorium.

  Attired for the upcoming festival party, Hedda wore a simple but elegant black cocktail dress, belted at the waist. A string of flawless pearls hung around her neck. Her silver-white hair was down, just brushing her shoulders, the ends curled into a 1940's-style pageboy.

  I saw no sign of Hedda's granddaughter, Harmony, and the elderly actress seemed momentarily flustered. Her haughty airs were gone, and she began to fumble inside her black clutch bag
.

  As Dean Pepper continued to wheel Pierce up the aisle, I held my breath while those around me—apparently oblivious to the drama about to unfold—chatted and munched popcorn. I was sorry Maggie Kline was not here to see this. She, at least, was aware of the significance of the situation.

  Hedda finally closed her bag and looked up, right into the eyes of Pierce Armstrong. The shock of recognition registered on her face, and she took a step backward, mouth moving soundlessly. Pierce clutched the arms of his wheelchair and slowly pushed himself to his feet. On unsteady legs he took a single step forward.

  "Hello, Hedda," he said evenly.

  Hedda's acute anxiety appeared to vanish, as if a curtain came down—or went up—and a performance began.

  "Pierce," she said, her chin raised, her voice strong and confident, "so lovely to see you after all these years."

  There were no hugs, no air kisses, not even a smile. Her greeting was civil, but cold and formal. The two former lovers stood face to face for a long moment. Then Hedda broke the deadlock. Her eyes drifted away from Armstrong and over to the man standing behind the elderly actor.

  "Ah, Dr. Pepper. There you are!" she declared. "I sent my granddaughter off to find you and now she's vanished."

  Pepper smiled. "I'm right here."

  Hedda tilted her head and forced a smile of her own. "I believe you asked me to give a little introduction before the screening of Tight Spot. Am I on time?"

  "You are," Dr. Pepper replied, "and I see my colleague Brainert Parker is here to escort you to the stage."

  Brainert appeared at Hedda's side and offered the woman his arm. She took it and without another glance at Pierce, sauntered toward the stage. Pierce sat back down. As Dr. Pepper wheeled the man away, I noticed a smirk on the old actor's face, an unmistakable look of amused triumph.

  That's what it looks like to me, too, baby.

  "Well, Jack, I guess if anyone knew Hedda was acting, it would be her former leading man."

  Suddenly, someone rushed up to me. "Whew, I almost missed it!" It was Maggie Kline, acting like a kid in an amusement park. Her face was flushed, as if she'd crossed the lobby in a dead run. "The bathroom was so crowded, and then I heard someone say Hedda had arrived, and I raced back!"