"All that money? Oh, Jack... "
"Looks like its back to the salt mines for me. But it's not a total wipe. I still got you as a secretary—"
"Excuse me? Don't you mean partner?"
"Partner, huh?" Jack shook his head. "I don't know . . ."
"After all we've been through, don't you think I've earned it?"
The PI's lips lifted ever so slightly. "I'll have to think about it."
"Fine. You just call me when you're done thinking about it—"
Jack caught my wrist before I could walk away. "Dames. Why are they so much trouble?" "I'm no trouble!"
"Oh, yeah? Let's test that theory. C'mere . . ."
Jack jerked me close, into his arms. He kissed me and I kissed him right back. Then his lips were on my cheek, my jaw, my neck.
"Oh, Jack... " I sighed. "That feels like heaven... " I closed my eyes, wanting the feeling to go on forever— Ring-ring! Ring-ring! Ring-ring! Ring-ring!
I OPENED MY eyes. Sunlight was blasting through my window pane, morning had come without notice, and I was alone in bed. Jack's body was gone. His arms were no longer around me. His kisses had faded on the last wisp of dream.
Ring- ring! Ring- ring!
Ring- ring! Ring- ring!
Ring- ring!—
I sat up and slapped off my plastic alarm clock with enough force to crack the case.
CHAPTER 17
Quibbling over Clues
I sell gasoline, I make a small profit. With that, I buy groceries. The grocer makes a profit. We call it earning a living. You may have heard of that somewhere.
—Out of the Past, 1947
BUD NAPP SLAMMED his ball peen hammer on the table. "Motion carried," proclaimed the hardware store owner. "I'll draft a letter of protest to the mayor today, and deliver it in person first thing Monday morning."
He set the hammer down and lifted his paper cup of coffee. Bud paused, the cup halfway to his lips. "I'll inform 'his honor' that every member of this organization refuses to pay these unfair fines—and I can't wait to see the look on that mealy-mouthed politician's face."
Getting every last one of the Quibblers—aka, the Quindicott Business Owners Association—to attend a meeting at eight-thirty on a Sunday morning might have seemed insane a week ago. But a second round of two-hundred-dollar littering tickets written to every business on Cranberry Street automatically rendered everyone fit for a straightjacket.
The previous evening's Film Festival party on the Commons had left a pile of trash on the city streets, and the mayor decided to levy punishing fines on all of the business owners to cover the cost of clean-up.
As soon as Bud found the ticket plastered to his hardware store's front door, he made a few phone calls. He discovered, after dragging the police chief out of bed, that Ciders had been leaned on by the mayor, who was threatened with political punishment by none other than Councilwoman Marjorie Binder-Smith—and her wealthy Larchmont Avenue backers. So Bud had called this emergency meeting.
"Enough is enough," said Gerry Kovacks, owner of Cellular Planet. Like everyone else, Gerry had arrived at his business this morning and found the littering ticket taped to his door. "It isn't fair. We pay taxes already. Too damn many taxes, too!"
"You go get them good, Bud Napp," cried Mr. Koh, owner of the local grocery store. Then he ripped his ticket up and scattered the confetti-sized pieces across my hardwood floor.
"We've got to fight," Danny Boggs declared. "No way I can afford four hundred bucks worth of fines in a single weekend."
Seymour, who was sitting between Sadie and me, jumped to his feet. "I found a ticket on my ice-cream truck this morning. I don't control what those little bastards do with the ice cream wrappers after I sell them! This is fascism—and I know governmental persecution when I see it! I'm a federal employee!"
"What we need is a rebellion," Milner Logan cried. He punctuated his call with a militant power fist in the air. "Power to the self-employed business owners!"
Although Milner looked the part of an aging radical, the long straight ponytail that flowed down his broad back wasn't part of a political statement. He was one-quarter-blood Narragansett Native American and had worn his hair that way since childhood.
Milner and his wife, Linda Cooper-Logan, should have been at their bakery now, with Sunday being their busiest morning. But they were both so furious about the tickets, they'd entrusted their business to a pair of part-time workers to make their voices heard.
Linda ran an agitated hand through her short, spiky Annie Lennox eighties hair. "I can't believe it's come to this!"
"Well it has," said Glenn Hastings of Hastings Pharmacy. "And it's all because of one woman. Marjorie Binder-Smith!"
You'd have thought we were in the Movie Town Theater, watching a Boris and Natasha cartoon, the way everyone in the Community Events room booed the municipal-zoning witch. When the curses and catcalls faded, Aunt Sadie spoke up.
"Why don't you tell them your news, Bud?"
"News?" Fiona Finch asked, sitting up straighter. "What news?"
Sadie grinned. "Bud has big news!"
Standing on the raised platform, Bud nodded and rested the palms of his hands on the table.
"I don't know about the rest of you, but I've had it with this town's prohibitive business taxes, stifling regulations, and outdated zoning codes. I think it's time somebody stepped up and took the system on—starting with the municipal zoning witch herself. That's why I'm running for Marjorie Binder-Smith's seat on the city council this fall!"
The Quibblers greeted the news with loud applause and shouts of support.
"It won't be easy," Bud warned, "since the councilwoman has had the backing of the town's wealthiest residents for years. They're fat, happy property owners who don't want our Cranberry Street business district to expand. But times are changing in Quindicott. We haven't seen better days in decades, and it's because of us! Our hard work! They thumb their nose at capitalists, but we don't have old money accruing oodles of interest in stocks and bonds and Caribbean bank accounts. We have to work for our living! And I promise you that I'll protect our interests and give my best if you see me through to victory!"
Everyone applauded and shouted their support; some even rushed up to Bud to shake his hand.
"Wow," Seymour said, sitting beside me. "I've never heard Bud talk like that before."
Sadie smiled and nodded. "He said he got inspired watching speech-makers on the History Channel."
"The History Channel?" Seymour frowned. "Then you'd better keep him away from the German documentaries."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean if you see Bud watching a little guy with a small, dark mustache giving angry speeches to throngs of blond people, change the channel"
His announcement over, Bud sat down.
Most of the group, now much more optimistic, headed out the door, hurrying to church or back to their businesses. As the room cleared, Bud raised his ball peen hammer.
"Okay. Guess there's no other business this morning, so I'll officially close this meet—"
"Not so fast!" Fiona cried. "I want to know how Penelope's investigation is going. And I think I have some information that may help."
Halfway out of their seats, Milner and Linda paused.
"There's an investigation?" Linda asked. Blue eyes wide, she plopped back down, dragging Milner with her. "Tell us more."
"Yeah, I'm kind of curious myself," said Bud. "So I cede the floor to Penelope McClure." He banged his hammer, and I noticed Brainert shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
I stood and brought everyone up to speed about the audio speaker falling in the theater and the tragic "accidental" death of Dr. Lilly in my store. I told them about the burglary of Dr. Lilly's lighthouse bungalow, seeing Dr. Rubino hurrying into the woods, then seeing him later with Harmony Middleton. Then I told them that I believed someone was trying to kill Hedda Geist-Middleton, too—and that Pierce Armstrong was tangled up with her past as w
ell as Dr. Lilly's new book.
"Whew!" Linda cried. "That's a brainfull!"
"Don't worry, we can puzzle this out if we just apply a little logic," Milner insisted. "Anyway, it's more interesting at the moment than mixing another batch of pastry dough. I've been working like a dog and I can use a break."
Fiona Finch had already read Dr. Lilly's just-published book cover to cover, so she took the floor next. Today she wore a kelly-green pantsuit and a blue-and-yellow parrot pin.
"Well," she began, "I want to start by saying that Murdered in Plain Sight is a fascinating book. My only complaint is that the author waits until the final chapters to reveal her intriguing theory—"
"This isn't a reading group, Fiona," Seymour griped. "Don't waste our time with your literary opinions. Just cut to the chase!" "Stuff it, mailman. I'm the one who read the book!" Fiona then cleared her throat and proceeded to tell everyone the story of Hedda Geist's rise from nothing to minor stardom, and the events surrounding the death of studio chief Irving Vreen.
"Dr. Lilly believes Hedda Geist was involved in a conspiracy to eliminate Irving Vreen, and I think she makes a solid case for murder," Fiona concluded.
"She most certainly does not!" Brainert responded. "There's simply no proof at all, only innuendo. Why, I could not even discern a motive, and what's a crime without a motive?"
That's my problem with all this, too, Jack murmured.
As the ghost's deep voice rumbled through my still-sleepy mind, I automatically smiled. "Jack," I silently whispered. "Good morning."
Morning, baby. Enjoy yourself last night?
"What do you think?"
I think you know what I think.
"Have you been listening to all this?"
Yeah, sweetheart. And if I had a head, it would be aching by now. I'd rather be watching your backside in your bedroom.
"Jack... don't start, you're going to make me blush. Then what would I tell the Quibblers?"
That you go bored with their yammering and started daydreaming about a detective who's hot in the zipper for you. What else?
"Jack!"
"I'm telling you, Fiona," Brainert argued, as my cheeks reddened. "There's no motive—"
"You didn't discern a motive because you obviously skimmed the text." Fiona waved her copy of Lilly's book under Brainert's nose. Dozens of multicolored Post-its fluttered like tiny UN flags.
"Dr. Lilly claims to have read memos from Jack Warner, the head of Warner Studios, begging Irving Vreen to release Hedda from her contract so she could work for him. Warner told Vreen that he wanted to bring Hedda out west, to Hollywood, and give her starring roles in big-budget movies opposite the likes of Humphrey Bogart, Robert Mitchum, and Edward G. Robinson. Can you imagine a young woman in her twenties getting such an amazing offer?!"
"Where did you read that?" Brainert demanded.
Fiona thumbed a pink Post-it and flung the book open. "Here, on page 224."
Brainert snatched the book out of the woman's hand and scanned the page for a moment. "There are no footnotes here!" Brainert exclaimed. "If Dr. Lilly really read such memos, then she should have quoted them, given them a proper citation in the back matter, provided photocopies in the appendix, cited an archive source!"
"How about the quote on page 233? It's highlighted in yellow," Fiona shot back.
Brainert flipped pages, read the passage aloud. " 'Benny Seelig, the studio manager and property master at Gotham Features, once heard Irving Vreen boast that "Jack Warner wanted Hedda so badly he tried to buy my entire studio." In an interview in 1966, Mr. Seelig claims Vreen had to cut Mr. Warner off with a sharply worded letter that ended with the line "I own Hedda. Don't ask again." ' "
I froze in my chair. "My god, Jack, Did you hear—"
Brother, did I ever. And if that wasn't a motive for Hedda Geist to punch Irving Vreen's ticket, I'll eat my fedora.
"Even the conspiracy makes sense now."
I follow, baby. If Jack Warner wanted Hedda that badly for his big Hollywood studio, then she could have promised Pierce Armstrong and Wilma Brody contracts with Warner, too. That would have been motive enough for them to help her.
"So, you see," Fiona continued to explain, "Hedda must have murdered Vreen to get free of his binding contracts. But she was young and naive—if not downright stupid. According to Dr. Lilly's book, when the news of Vreen's death hit the papers, the scandal ruined Hedda. All sorts of unsavory details were splashed across the headlines during Pierce Armstrong's trial. It came out that Hedda was having an affair with Vreen, a married man with a young daughter. No one would touch her for leading roles after the tabloids got done with her, not even Warner Studios. She went to the West Coast anyway, and when she found herself without a career, she used her sex appeal to land a wealthy TV executive as a husband."
"Did the newspapers ever accuse Hedda of planning a cold-blooded murder?" Brainert asked.
"Not according to Dr. Lilly's research. That accusation was never made at the time—not even by Pierce Armstrong, who, even through his own trial, continued to maintain that Vreen's death was a tragic accident.
"There! You see!" Brainert cried. "Don't you think Armstrong would have told the truth during his trial? After all, he was on the hot seat. He had every reason to point the finger at Hedda for planning Vreen's murder."
I shook my head. "No, Brainert, don't you see? If Pierce Armstrong had done that, then they would have tried him for participating in a premeditated murder. He could have gotten the gas chamber for that back then. Instead, the judge gave him five years for manslaughter. The man probably kept his mouth shut to protect his own hide."
"So why is he talking now?" Brainert folded his arms.
Seymour piped up. "Probably because Dr. Lilly tracked him down and encouraged him to tell his side of the story. He's an old geezer now, at the end of his life. He probably figures he has nothing more to lose by setting the record straight for posterity. And don't forget he's an actor at heart. A final bow in the spotlight through a book telling his story would sound pretty sweet to a guy like that."
"Everything you're saying is just speculation!" Brainert threw up his hands. "Dr. Lilly's version of the truth relies on hearsay from a forty-year-old interview with a man named Benny. If an actual letter from Jack Warner exists, then where is it?"
I answered that one. "I'll bet that letter, and those memos, are part of what was stolen from Dr. Lilly's bungalow. More evidence could have been included in Dr. Lilly's missing manuscript, too. After all, Maggie Kline told us that Pierce Armstrong gave the woman extensive interviews.
"But any allegations made in this book should have been proven in this book!" Brainert replied.
"Says you," Seymour cut in. "If you recall, the press showed up to see Dr. Lilly's talk. The doctor herself invited them, which meant she probably did have the evidence. She probably wanted to make news by showing the reporters the memos and letters first. Then she could have published all that stuff in her second book. That way, she could sell two books to the public: the first book about Hedda's life story and the second with Pierce Armstrong's version of how the murder went down."
"Only she conveniently died in an accident," Fiona said. "And then her bungalow was robbed. If there's nothing to this story, why all the mayhem?"
"Dr. Lilly's death could easily have been an accident," Brainert argued.
"And I guess her manuscript, tapes, and notes were accidentally stolen, too," Seymour said. "Face it, Brainiac, you're resisting reality because Hedda Giest-Middleton is your business partner."
Brainert arched an eyebrow. "Reality? I'll give you reality, mailman. In my opinion, Dr. Lilly wrote a sensationalistic attempt to cash in on a very public tragedy. She only dished up enough dirt to hurt a gracious old woman—and hustle a few dollars for herself. I hate to say such things about a fellow academic, but I'm afraid everything I've said is true."
"Come on, Brainert," said Seymour. "Dr. Lilly wrote a lot of books. Why would she need mo
ney now?"
"No one gets rich writing academic film studies, Seymour. And I know for a fact Dr. Lilly was no wealthier than you or I. But if she published a sensational book about a Hollywood crime—well, that kind of trash always sells."
"It's true," Fiona said. "I'm sure Dr. Lilly would have gotten Hollywood interest with a book based on this story—an original cable-channel movie at the very least."
Brainert nodded. "How many books of fiction and fact have been based on the Black Dahlia murder, for instance?"
"Sure," Milner said, bobbing his head. "I loved Ellroy's Black Dahlia. That's a great Hollywood mystery."
"Yeah," Linda agreed. "And didn't Dominick Dunne write a novel about the Dahlia murder, too?"
"Wrong Dunne," said Brainert. "The novel you're talking about is True Confessions. It was written by John Gregory Dunne."
"Hey, I saw that movie!" Bud said. "De Niro and Robert Duvall played brothers, one a priest, the other a cop. It was okay, but no Godfather—"
"You see what I'm saying?" Brainert broke in. "Dr. Lilly stood to earn hundreds of thousands of dollars—perhaps millions." "Which doesn't make her wrong," Fiona insisted. "I agree with Fiona," I said.
I let my comment end there, because I didn't want to insult Brainert. He might have been an expert on all things literary, but Fiona was the expert where true crime was involved.
Still, Brainert sensed my snub. Stung, he tossed Lilly's book on the seat next to him, then folded his arms. "Okay, fine. I'll play along. Let's pretend Hedda did commit this heinous crime sixty years ago. Who would want her dead now? And why would that person try to destroy evidence of the original crime at the same time? Seems like the killer is working at cross-purposes."
"Maybe we're approaching this from the wrong angle," Seymour suggested. "What if Hedda herself was the one who unlocked the trap door in order to kill Pierce Armstrong? He's the only other person I can think of who knows the truth about Vreen's death, besides the late Dr. Lilly, who's already on a slab in the morgue."
Brainert vehemently shook his head. "I saw Hedda enter the theater, and I watched her the whole time she was there. She didn't have a chance to go under the stage and tamper with a door."
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