"So you got a good look?"
"From the theater doors," she said, and then shrugged. "I'm a little disappointed. I guess I was expecting more. Fireworks, explosions, something... "
Maggie's reference to explosions suddenly cast Pierce
Armstrong's smirk in a whole new light. Tensing in my seat, I flashed back on that giant audio speaker sparking and flashing above the stage and nearly crushing the elderly Hedda Geist, right in front of her adoring fans.
"Jack? Peirce is such an old man. You don't think he could be a threat, do you?"
The ghost grunted. Back in '46, a cop I used to work with went to arrest an eighty-two-year-old man for smacking his wife around. The guy didn't shine to a buttoned-up yancy telling him what he could or couldn't do with his little woman.
"What happened?"
Long story short, the cop was clocked twice with a ball bat before his partner iced the old fart. "Excuse me!" I told Maggie. "Change your mind about the ladies'?" "No, the man."
"What?"
I climbed out of my seat and hurried down the aisle to the far end of the stage, where I called to Bud in the wings. Smiling, he approached me.
"Hey, Pen. What's up?" he asked, crouching down on one knee.
I jerked my head toward Brainert and Hedda, who were locked in conversation at the bottom of the steps that led up to the stage. Harmony had arrived, too. She looked stunning tonight—a photo negative of her grandmother in a white summer dress, a choker made of shiny black gemstones, and her blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail.
"Listen," I said softly, "you remember what happened the last time Hedda was on stage. Have you checked this place out thoroughly?"
Bud frowned. "You don't think—"
"Oh, but I do."
To my relief, he didn't question me. While I watched, he checked the curtains, walked the length of center stage while peering up, into the catwalks. He checked the microphone wires, the chairs. Bud even glanced under the tablecloth, presumably for anything that looked like an explosive device. Then he stepped behind the chairs and walked toward the staircase, using small, cautious steps while following the path Hedda would take to her seat.
Suddenly, Bud froze. He took a step backward. His head jerked in my direction, and when Bud's eyes met mine, I knew he'd found something.
While I watched, Bud called an usher, whispered something to the teenager. The kid took off backstage, returned a moment later with an aluminum easel under his arm. He and Bud set the display up so that its tripod legs straddled the spot where Bud had paused. The usher ran off again, and returned with the sign advertising Hedda's appearance that had stood in the lobby. He placed it on the easel.
Bud approached me, his face pale. "The trapdoor was unlocked," he said. "I felt it give under my foot. Put more weight on it and the door would have opened right up. Anyone standing on it would have fallen through. It's a fifteen-foot drop to a concrete floor. At Hedda's age, a fall like that could be fatal."
"Could this be an accident?"
Bud shook his head. "Someone had to do it. A trapdoor doesn't unlock itself—"
"When?"
He shrugged. "I don't know, but it had to have happened recently. I've been back and forth across this stage for the past two hours. The door would have popped open before."
I frowned. That spot was exactly where Pierce Armstrong had been standing while he waited for Dr. Pepper to help him down the stairs.
"Bud, do you think Pierce Armstrong was the one who unlocked that trapdoor—"
A burst of applause drowned out my words. Barry Yello had walked onto the stage to a raucous greeting. As he began his introduction of Hedda, Bud gestured for me to go find a seat. He tapped his watch and mouthed, "Later." Then he moved to the wings.
TWO HOURS LATER, Bud Napp was shaking his head at me. "Sorry to shoot your theory down, Pen, but there's no way Pierce Armstrong could have set that trap for Hedda."
The movie had finished playing by now and the theater was clearing out. Practically everyone was heading off to the open-air block party on the Quindicott Commons—everyone but me and Bud. I was standing on the stage next to him, listening as he shot my meticulously reasoned theory all to hell.
"Are you certain Pierce couldn't work the lock?"
"Look here," he said, moving the aluminum easel. "On this side of the trapdoor, there are no bolts, no hinges, no screws. That stuff is underneath. Otherwise people on stage would be tripping over the hardware all the time."
I studied the trapdoor; it certainly did look like part of the floor. I sighed. "So how does one go about unlocking it?"
"You have to go under the stage," Bud explained. "Which means if Pierce Armstrong is guilty of trying to harm Hedda, he had to have an accomplice working underneath this floor."
I nodded. "Show me."
Bud led me to the rear of the backstage area, where a narrow staircase led to an empty basement of newly whitewashed concrete. At the bottom of the steps Bud flipped a switch and a few naked lightbulbs dully illuminated the vast space. On the wall to my right, I saw a steel fire door marked EXIT.
"Where does this lead?" I asked.
"To the alley that runs behind Cranberry Street."
Bud flipped another switch, placed his hands on the door's horizontal handle, and pushed it open. Warm air streamed into the cool, damp cellar, tainted with a whiff of garbage from the Dumpster just outside the door.
"It was unlocked," I noted.
"It's always unlocked because it's a fire door," Bud explained. "It's only locked on the outside. You'll notice I cut off the alarm before I pushed it open." He pointed to a small metal circuit box that looked like another light switch. "If I hadn't, an alarm would have rung upstairs, alerting management to a break-in."
I scratched my head. "And there's no way someone could have slipped in through that door and gotten under the stage without anyone in the main theater noticing?"
Bud shrugged. "Unless they had an accomplice inside who came down here and opened the door for them. That accomplice would have had to know about cutting off the alarm switch."
"How likely is that?"
"Unfortunately it's very likely. And there's something else you should see. Follow me." He led me to a spot in the middle of the empty cellar. "Look up."
I did. After gazing into the shadows for a moment, I finally made out the bottom of the trapdoor fifteen feet above me. It looked like a square in the ceiling with hinges on one side. Two dead bolts held the door in place and they'd both been opened. The ceiling was so high, the only way to reach it was the folding ladder set up right under the door.
"The wannabe killer must have set up this ladder," I said.
"The truth is, I set this ladder up myself, just yesterday, to change a burned-out lightbulb." Bud pointed to the ceiling. "But it's obvious to me that whoever unlocked the trapdoor did know their way around this theater."
I mulled Bud's words while he climbed the ladder and relocked the dead bolts.
"Any way to get more light around here?" I asked him from the floor.
"Try the work light," Bud replied. "It's right over the bench."
I found the fluorescent light and turned it on. Powerful beams penetrated the shadows, making this section of the large cellar twice as bright as before. That's when I noticed a small dark object on the whitewashed concrete. I dropped to all fours and picked it up.
Bud watched me from the top of the ladder. "What have you found?"
"An earring. Looks like black onyx in a silver setting. It looks new, too. There's no tarnish or dust on it. Want to see?"
Bud climbed down from the ladder and crossed to the bench. He studied the earring pinched in my fingers while he used a rag to wipe soot off his hands.
"That's not from my crew," he said. "My guys have been down here plenty, but there are no women on my work crew— and no pierced ears, noses, or lips either."
Suddenly a memory flashed into my mind—a young woman in a white dress, a
ccented by a choker made of black gem-stones, stones that may well have been onyx. Harmony Middleton.
"Sorry, Pen, but it's getting late," said Bud, tapping his wristwatch. "And I promised Sadie I'd meet her at the block party."
"Oh, yeah, the block party." "Aren't you going, too?" Bud asked. "I wasn't planning on it."
Well, change your plans, Jack immediately growled in my head. That earring is missing off some broad's earlobe. And if you find it missing off Harmony's, then you'll know you've got your man.
"Or woman."
Figure of speech, baby. 'Cause trouble is my business, and in my business, dames are the most trouble of all.
CHAPTER 16
Chippy off the Old Block
MIKE: Mind if I sit here?
KAY: Not if you can't behave yourself.
MIKE: Well, you never liked me when I did.
—Mike Shayne hitting on Kay Bentley in Sleepers West, a Mike Shayne Detective Mystery, 1941
New York City May 10, 1948
"JACK, WHERE AM I?" "In my apartment."
"Your apartment! How did I get here?"
"I gave you a ride, baby. Don't you remember when we took that trip to Queens, and those lousy two-legged rats shot at us in the alley? Then I stashed you in that dark doorway?"
"Oh, yeah... I do remember."
"You were shaking like a wet kitten, and I took you in my arms—"
"And kissed me. That's right."
"Well, it led to a few more kisses, and one thing led to another, and I drove you back here."
I opened my eyes. I was nestled against Jack's solid form on a big, lumpy sofa. The PI's apartment was small but neat with an easy chair and a coffee table. A bar stood against the wall, holding bottles of liquor. A large radio sat between two tall windows covered in drawn Venetian blinds, and a bookshelf in the corner held paperbacks and a stack of magazines. I saw a small kitchen through one door, a bedroom through another.
Jack's deep-blue double-breasted jacket was thrown over the arm of a chair. His leather shoulder holster was hanging over its back. The PI's shoes were off, too, and his sock-covered feet were crossed on the coffee table in front of us. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing muscular forearms. One strong arm was now draped around my shoulders. The other held a tumbler with wheat-colored alcohol. He was sipping the drink with one hand, caressing my shoulder with the other.
I looked down, a little worried about how many pieces of clothing I'd find missing. I was still wearing the skirt of the smart tweed suit that Jack had selected for me, but the jacket was gone and my blouse's top buttons were undone, revealing quite a bit of lace bra. I pulled away from Jack's embrace and did up the buttons.
The PI smirked. He rubbed his square chin now rough with stubble. "Don't look at me like that, baby. You were the one who unbuttoned them. You said you were hot."
I arched an eyebrow, thinking about his kisses. "Oh, I'm sure I was."
"So." He yawned and stretched, set down his drink on the coffee table, then leaned back again and clasped his hands behind his head. "Now that the fun's over . . . you want to tell me what happened tonight?"
I squinted. "Am I sleeping right now? Is this a dream?"
His slate-gray eyes held my gaze. "What do you think?"
"I think you've got Hokey-Pokey Pink lipstick on your collar—"
He smiled, with a little too much satisfaction. "And?"
"And I remember something about Bud Napp helping me under the Movie Town Theater stage, finding an onyx-and-silver earring, then running back to my bedroom above the bookshop and changing for the block party."
"Yeah, baby, you changed clothes and handbags, too. Only you forgot about yours truly."
"The nickel!"
"You left without my lucky buffalo in your purse, which left me stuck watching reruns of Jack Shield episodes on the Intrigue Channel all by my lonesome."
"I'm sorry, Jack! I remember now. When I got to the block party, I realized you weren't with me. I was going to go back home and get your old nickel, but then I saw Harmony and didn't want to miss my chance to surveil her earlobes."
Jack sighed. "All right, baby, so you flew solo. Tell me what I missed."
"Well, Harmony wasn't wearing any earrings but that actually seemed suspicious to me because—" I paused, feeling Jack's hand reaching over to sweep hair away from the nape of my neck. "Jack?" I tensed. "What are you—"
His fingers began to message my tight muscles.
"Oh, wow . . ." I rolled my head around. "That actually feels good... "
"Of course it does, baby. Now tell me why it was so suspicious that Harmony wasn't sporting earrings? I don't know much about the jewelry-wearing habits of dames. Enlighten me."
"Okay, well . . ." I shifted on the couch to get more comfortable. "Harmony's ears are pierced. And most women with pierced ears wear earrings. So it seemed awfully suspicious that she wasn't wearing any. And I thought maybe she realized that she'd lost one earring and simply taken the second one out before going to the party."
"So what did you do?"
"I noticed Barry Yello at the party—"
"Barry's the big guy?"
"Yes. He was the guy with the blond ponytail and the Hawaiian shirt, the one who introduced Dr. Lilly the first night of the Film Festival. Barry's also the Webmaster of FylmGeek .com, and...Oh, wait. I should explain what dot com means—"
"Don't bother," Jack said. "Between you and your aunt working on that computer every day, I've figured out what the Internet is—"
"An information highway."
"Another set of street corners for pervs and shitbirds to prey on the public."
I sighed. "That too. Anyway, Barry had a digital camera with him, and he was snapping photos all night, presumably to post on his Web site. I figured he would have been paying special attention to the festival's guests. I asked him about Hedda's and Harmony's movements."
Jack's massaging fingers moved from my neck to one shoulder. His other hand joined in, taking care of the other shoulder. "Move back a little, baby," he whispered, "closer to me."
I slid backward on the lumpy couch, making the old springs creak beneath my weight.
"Go on, doll," Jack growled in my ear. "Tell me what Barry said."
I cleared my throat, trying my best to ignore the realness of Jack's hard thigh against my tweed-covered bottom, the faint male smell of undiluted whiskey on his breath when he spoke. I reminded myself that this was all a dream; warned myself not to get carried away. But the truth was, there hadn't been a man in my life for years. Even when I'd been married to Calvin, he hadn't exactly been an attentive, supportive husband. Not that a ghost could be a replacement for a husband, but I had to admit that Jack's spirit was a good companion, and a good friend. And right at this moment, what he was doing to me felt pretty darn good, too.
I knew what some people would say to that. They'd accuse me of wanting to live in a dream world. But then I considered the store I was running—and what I was selling. What were all those books providing to the people who read them?
"Baby? What's wrong? You goin' buggy on me?"
"I was just thinking that I liked being here . . . with you."
"It's all we've got, sweetheart. Don't overthink it. Dreams are a gift, you know? You should just enjoy them."
I turned around to meet Jack's eyes. "You enjoy them, too, don't you?"
Jack stopped massaging my neck. His hard face smiled. "What do you think?"
I smiled, too. Then I turned around again. "I think you missed a spot."
Jack's hands returned to my shoulders. "So? Back to Barry and your little block party... "
"Right. According to Barry Yello, Hedda had been holding court at a picnic table all evening. Apparently, she never returned to the Finch Inn after the showing of Tight Spot. Just went straight to the party on the Commons. And her granddaughter, Harmony, had been hanging close with her all evening."
"Uh-huh. And what did that tell you?"
/> I detected contained amusement in Jack's voice, and sure enough when I turned my head, I found the PI smirking. He was obviously entertained by my gumshoeing tale.
"What it told me, Jack, was that if Harmony dropped that earring under the Movie Town stage, and she never went back to her hotel room to drop off its match, then I was likely to find that earring on Harmony herself."
"And did you?"
"No. I did manage to search her handbag though."
Jack's fingers stilled. "You're kidding?"
"Nope. Seymour Tarnish helped. He distracted her and I grabbed her bag, riffled through it, and returned it without her knowing. No earring. And she didn't have any pockets on her skintight dress, but I did find something very interesting inside that purse."
Jack sat up straighter. "Spill."
"A pack of condoms and three bottles of prescription medications from three different doctors."
"Well, well, well." Jack's eyebrows arched. "Keeping party favors and candy in her handbag tells me that she's the type who wants to be ready for anything—if not any man. Just like her grandmother. Guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tart."
"I think the girl's got major problems," I said. "And she's clearly having sex with a boyfriend."
"Or boyfriends, plural—one or more of whom might be willing to help her get rid of her granny, so she can inherit a fortune."
"Or part of one."
"Nice work, baby."
I could see that Jack meant it. The smirk was gone. He seemed genuinely impressed. Without taking his long, strong legs off the coffee table, he leaned forward to reach for his tumbler of whiskey.
"And what about Pierce Armstrong?" he asked.
I frowned. "What about him?"
"Didn't you brace him at the party, too?"
"Unfortunately, he didn't go to the party. I cornered Wendell Pepper, though. He told me Pierce was so exhausted that he asked for a ride back to his house. Pepper took him before returning to the block party."
"I see." Jack took a sip of alcohol then held the glass out for me. "Go on, it won't kill you."
I took the glass, sipped a little. I wasn't a drinker of straight hard liquor, but I was curious what Jack's dream-whiskey would taste like. "Ack!" I coughed. The liquid burned all the way down my throat.
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