The Ghost and the Femme Fatale - Haunted Bookshop 04

by Alice Kimberley

  "Which would be pretty tough to do for an old woman," Bud agreed.

  "Why?" Seymour demanded.

  "Because she'd have to climb a high ladder, then wrestle two dead bolts open." Bud shook his head. "I doubt she could do it."

  "Okay, okay," Seymour said. "Then what about Harmony? She's spry enough to manage a ladder. Maybe she's helping Granny off her enemies."

  "It's possible." I nodded, telling them about the black onyx earring I found under the stage and Harmony's showing up at the party sans any earrings. "She could be helping her grandmother— and Randall Rubino could be helping them both."

  Bud blinked. "Dr. Rubino? The new medical examiner guy?"

  "Yes. Rubino is friendly with both Hedda and Harmony, and I saw him near Dr. Lilly's bungalow shortly after it was burglarized. He claimed he was fishing near the Charity Point Lights house. But he could have run down to the beach when he heard the maid come to the bungalow's door—and since the steps up the cliff are the only way to get off that beach, he would have been trapped there until the police left."

  Bud shook his head. "What would be his motive to risk everything?"

  "A big payoff maybe," I said. "Eddie Franzetti told me his divorce wiped him out. And one more thing: He claimed he was fishing, but I didn't see him with a fishing pole, only a backpack. So what was he really doing there? And why did he lie about fishing?

  Bud shrugged. "I sell collapsible fishing poles in my shop that are small enough to fit in a backpack—they only cost a hundred bucks."

  A C-note?! For a fishing pole! Jack yelped in my head. In my day, a twig and some twine did the trick.

  "Maybe a crazy fan is helping Hedda," Milner suggested. "There are a lot of people who'd do anything for a beautiful film star."

  Linda gave him a sidelong glance. "Is that why you're always dragging me to Angelina Jolie movies?"

  "Don't even go there." Milner rolled his eyes. "You're the one who has a thing for George Clooney."

  "Wait a minute!" I said. "Barry Yello was taking photos of people as they arrived at the block party. If we look at them, maybe we can determine who was wearing an earring that matched the one I found. Hedda had her hair down, so I don't even know if she was wearing earrings. But Harmony may have been wearing one earring before I got to her. If I saw a photo—"

  "It's a good idea to look at Harmony," Fiona said. "But I think you're off track in thinking she's in league with Hedda. I still think Hedda Geist is the target. One accident is coincidence. Two accidents is something else . . . something that smells a lot like attempted murder."

  Everyone was silent for a moment. Then Seymour cleared his throat. "I hate to say it, but the only guy with a really strong motive to off Hedda is the Fisherman Detective himself: Pierce Armstrong. His leading-man career was ruined by Vreen's death, and on top of that he went to prison."

  Brainert turned to Seymour. "My god, man, it must have hurt you to say that, seeing as Armstrong is your personal hero and all."

  "At least I can look at the evidence objectively—something you academic types are incapable of doing. You guys always have an agenda."

  "We do not! And I don't appreciate you lumping all academics into one muddy pile."

  "Muddy pile is the perfect metaphor, Parker. 'Cause you know what they say PhD stands for . .."

  After a few more minutes of "spirited" discussion, it was generally agreed that Pierce Armstrong had the most powerful motive to kill Hedda. His motive to kill Dr. Lilly, however, wasn't as clear, but Brainert once again suggested that her death really could have been an accident.

  "You forget the burglary of Dr. Lilly's room, which occurred within an hour of her death," Fiona noted. "Again, it's too much of a coincidence. Find the thief, and you'll find your killer!"

  The buzzer rang. I glanced at Sadie. "A delivery on Sunday?"

  She shrugged and ran to answer the door, then returned to the Community Events room with a special-delivery envelope in her hand. "It's here!" she cried.

  Seymour blinked. "What's here?"

  "Pen asked me to hunt up a book on the history of Gotham Features," she replied as she pulled a battered hardcover from the package. "This book was published in the early 1950s, after Gotham went belly-up. I had it sent overnight from a used book dealer in Ann Arbor, Michigan. That and the Sunday delivery cost more than the book itself, so I hope it helps!"

  Sadie tried to pass the book to Fiona, but the innkeeper threw up her hands. "Sorry, I don't have time to read a book today," she said. "The big film festival dinner is being held tonight at Chez Finch. I've got too much to do!"

  "That's the costume thing," Milner said, grinning. "I'm coming as Sam Spade."

  "Costume?" Bud groaned. "It that really necessary?"

  "I expect everyone to arrive dressed as their favorite film noir character," Fiona sniffed, her chin high. "It's required." "Another fascist," Seymour griped. "I heard that," Fiona snapped.

  "Prove to me that you're not a storm trooper. Sell me those nautical paintings in the lighthouse." "Forget it, mailman!"

  Bud groaned again, still pondering the dinner. "Maybe I'll come as Tarzan. Can't think of an easier—or cheaper— costume."

  Aunt Sadie laughed. "Bud Napp in a leaf-covered Speedo?" She winked playfully at her beau. "Now that would be a sight I'd like to see."

  "Except it won't fit with the theme," Fiona pointed out.

  "It will if I throw a trench coat over it." said Bud with a wink of his own for Sadie.

  "Careful, Bud," Seymour said with a snort. "In this town, they'll arrest you for dressing like a flasher."

  Sadie tucked the book under her arm. "I'll read this myself for clues, Penelope, and jot down anything curious I notice in the text."

  I smiled. "Thanks. And try to keep a running list of names you come across. If Pierce Armstrong is our murderer, it's likely he has an accomplice. I'll bring Brainert the list you make. He can cross-check it with the guest list and subscribers who bought tickets for the festival. Who knows, we might get lucky and find another person here at the festival who was associated with Gotham Features."

  "My money's definitely on Pierce Armstrong as the guilty party," Milner said.

  "Well, if he is guilty," said Seymour, "Pierce either has an accomplice, like Pen said, or he's faking his condition and doesn't really need that wheelchair."

  "Maybe it's about time we question the Fisherman Detective," I said. "Throw a few accusations his way and see if he'll bite."

  Ouch, baby. And you thought my jokes were bad?

  CHAPTER 18

  Dark Discovery in the Noir Museum

  Dead men make bad witnesses.

  —The Street with No Name, 1948

  "SPEED UP, PEN. I want this coffee to be nice and hot when we get to Dr. Pepper's crib."

  Brainert, Seymour, and I were piled into my Saturn, its battery recharged, thanks to Seymour's ice-cream truck. And though our mission was urgent, Seymour insisted we stop at the Cooper Family Bakery for coffee and doughnuts.

  Milner's lighter-than-air specialties were devoured by all three of us inside of two minutes. We'd all downed small, hot coffees, too. But then Seymour insisted on getting another, extra-l arge Mocha Java to go. Now he was in my backseat, cradling a full cup of steaming joe between his knees.

  "You'll never finish that overdose of caffeine before we get to Wendell's house," Brainert complained.

  "That's the point, Brainiac," Seymour replied. "I'm not going to drink it, I'm going to spill it."

  "Spill it!" Brainert cried. "Spill it where?"

  Seymour arched an eyebrow. "On Pierce Armstrong. I'm going to pretend to drink it, and then kind of 'accidentally' dump it on his legs. If Armstrong jumps out of that wheelchair, spry as an athlete, we'll know he's faking his condition!"

  Brainert blinked once then squeezed his eyes shut. "My god. You are an idiot."

  "Why? What do you think will happen, genius?"

  "I think the old man will scream as the scalding
liquid burns his flesh. Then we'll call an ambulance, and you'll be arrested at the hospital for assault."

  Seymour squinted. "You're just jealous I thought of it first."

  Brainert massaged his temples. "Armstrong's not a paraplegic, you dunderhead! Wendell told me he suffers from advanced arthritis, caused by all the injuries he suffered during his career as a stunt man."

  "Oh," Seymour said. His shoulders slumped.

  I pulled up to the curb. "We're here. Don't spill that coffee as you get out."

  At the front door, Brainert buzzed several times, but no one answered. He knocked and tested the knob. The door was unlocked. We exchanged surprised glances.

  "Wait," I said. "Take a look around. Did someone try to break in?"

  Seymour stepped up and examined the wooden door, then the doorjamb and screen door. He shook his head. "No damage. The door was unlocked, that's all. Maybe somebody's home . . . in the cellar or attic or something and can't hear the buzzer."

  Brainert pushed the door open and stepped inside. "Dean Pepper? Wendell?" His voice rang hollow in the yellow foyer. The framed one-sheet of Taxi Driver loomed over us. De Niro's Travis Bickle was giving me the creeps. Seymour must have noticed.

  "Gee," he joked, elbowing me, "I hope that witchy ex-wife of the dean's didn't murder his prune-flavored ass."

  Brainert glared. "That's not funny, Seymour."

  "Who's being funny? Virginia Pepper is one scary tomato."

  "I was referring to your jibe at Wendell's name—Dr. Pepper being a prune-flavored soft drink." He looked away. "Your remarks about Virginia's violent tendencies are another matter entirely."

  "You mean they're justified."

  "Maybe." Brainert called out again, louder this time. "Wendell! Are you there, man?"

  Seymour pushed past him impatiently and started looking around.

  Brainert frowned. "Seymour, stop, we really shouldn't be here ... "

  "The door was open. Either someone is at home and didn't hear us at the door, or the house has been burglarized. In that case, it's our civic duty to investigate. And since I'm a federal employee—"

  "You're a postman, Tarnish, not an FBI agent! It's our civic duty to call the police if we think something is wrong." Brainert fumbled inside his beige sports coat and pulled out his cell phone.

  "You call. I'm checking things out."

  Seymour kept walking. I followed. Nothing in the front of the house appeared disturbed—yet I felt the hackles rising on the back of my neck. Something wasn't right.

  "Jack?" I silently whispered.

  I'm here, doll. I got your back.

  Seymour moved to the staircase and called upstairs. I cautiously entered the living room, afraid of what I might find. I spied a pair of men's shoes beside the couch and a glass of water on the coffee table, but the room was empty.

  I heard Seymour calling as he climbed the stairs to the second floor, "Mr. Armstrong? Are you up here?"

  As Brainert followed Seymour, I moved to the back of the house, hoping to find someone in the kitchen.

  I arrived at the dining room first. The only sound here was the persistent bubbling of the fish tank. Morning sun streamed through the window, illuminating tiny dust motes in the air. They floated in front of the framed one- sheet of the James Bond Thunderball movie.

  My gaze moved to the mahogany sideboard, and I realized that something wasn't right. A metal display stand was sitting there, empty. The prop it held was missing. Where was the heavy speargun from Thunderball? The one Seymour had admired?

  "Virginia Pepper," I whispered.

  Dean Pepper's ex-wife had threatened to take things from the house, sell them on eBay to get the money that Wendell had promised her. Yet it seemed odd that it was the only thing missing.

  I noticed the Sunday edition of the Providence Journal spread out on the table's polished surface. A full cup of coffee sat beside it. Next to the cup, a half-empty tumbler of orange juice was stained by what appeared to be a large splash of ketchup.

  A moment later, I realized the stain wasn't ketchup at all. When I stepped around the table, I saw a wheelchair overturned on the parquet floor. Pierce Armstrong was sprawled beside it, blood oozing from his battered skull. He didn't appear to be breathing.

  Beside the body, smeared with thick, red blood was the speargun prop. It wasn't missing; it was the murder weapon!

  "Brainert! Seymour!" Hands shaking, I frantically scanned the room.

  Easy, sweetheart. Take it easy. The killer's long gone by now. Don't touch anything and back away.

  Hearing Jack's voice helped me calm down and focus. I followed the ghost's advice and backed up until I bumped into another body. That's when I screamed.

  "Pen, it's me!" Seymour cried, grabbing my shoulders. "What's wrong?"

  Brainert appeared at my side.

  "It's Pierce Armstrong. He's in there," I said, pointing.

  Brainert stepped forward and his gaunt face went pale. He used his cell phone to call the Quindicott Police. After he notified them of the crime, we walked to the front door to wait for the authorities to arrive. A car pulled up the second we got there, but it wasn't Chief Ciders's men in blue. Dr. Wendell Pepper had arrived home.

  "Parker!" called the dean, climbing out of his Lexus. "What brings you here?"

  When Brainert failed to reply, Dr. Pepper hastily crossed the lawn.

  "It's Pierce Armstrong," Brainert said softly. "He's dead."

  The dean blinked. "What? What happened? Did he fall . . . a heart attack?" He glanced around. "Where's the ambulance?"

  Brainert locked eyes with the man. "It was murder, Wendell. We came to see you and found the door unlocked and Pierce Armstrong lying on the floor, dead. The man was bludgeoned to death with the speargun prop from your dining room."

  Dr. Pepper's eyes widened in horror. His square jaw went slack. He looked like he was about to go into cardiac arrest himself.

  "When was the last time you saw Armstrong alive?" Brainert asked.

  Pepper glanced at his Rolex. "This morning. Not much more than an hour ago. Maggie cooked Armstrong breakfast, then packed up her things."

  "She's leaving?" I asked, surprised. "Already? With this weekend's biggest dinner party tonight?"

  Brainert and I exchanged suspicious glances. Why was Maggie Kline bolting so quickly? Up to now, she'd been happily staying as a guest in this very house.

  "She's not leaving Quindicott," Wendell replied, clearing things up. "Maggie was on a waiting list at the Finch Inn, and a room opened up. She got the call this morning."

  That still seemed suspicious to me. "Maggie was staying with you. Why move to the inn?"

  "Because of the big dinner at Chez Finch tonight, Wendell said. "Maggie wanted to check into the inn so she could stay as late as she wanted after dinner and wouldn't have to travel all the way back here to sleep. To be honest, I planned to join her. The rooms are very romantic, you know. And those dinners are always heavy drinking affairs, lots of toasts, people talking into the wee hours."

  Brainert nodded. "So when you left, Pierce was fine?"

  Wendell nodded vehemently. "I spoke with him, gave him the paper. Maggie even checked on him while I put her luggage in the car. I can readily assure you that Pierce Armstrong was very much alive an hour ago."

  We heard sirens. Three squad cars raced down Larchmont, bubble lights flashing.

  "Sheesh," Seymour muttered. "Eighteen freakin' minutes for Ciders's boys to get here. Thank goodness it wasn't a real emergency."

  Chief Ciders had come with his nephew, Bull McCoy. They went into the house and came back out again.

  "So what do you think, Chief?" Seymour called. "Another 'accident'? What's your theory this time? Did ol' Armstrong get up from his wheelchair and bash himself in the head with the speargun?"

  I heard Jack laughing in my head.

  "Shhhhh!"

  Seymour turned to me. "It's okay, Pen. He has it coming."

  The chief narrowed his eyes
on Seymour, and then he began to grill us. This time, when I mentioned the word murder, no one gave me any grief.

  Finally, the police went back into the house and took Wendell Pepper with them. Alone on the front porch, Seymour, Brainert, and I didn't take long to agree on the identity of the killer.

  "Hedda Geist-Middleton," Seymour declared. "She's the only person we know who had a motive to kill both Dr. Lilly and Pierce Armstrong."

  "I don't want to believe it, but I fear Seymour is correct," Brainert said, frowning.

  "I think so, too," I said. "While it's possible Virginia Pepper came to rob the house, I can't see an angry ex-wife being furious enough to bash in the head of an old man, even if he did catch her red-handed during some half-baked burglary. And besides, Virginia had no logical motive to kill Dr. Lilly or send an audio speaker careening to the Movie Town stage."

  I jerked my head in the direction of Chief Ciders, who was standing in the foyer. "Our problem is convincing the law around here that Hedda killed a man in cold blood sixty years ago—with accomplices—and she appears to be staging a repeat performance."

  "Well, don't look at me to convince Ciders of anything," Seymour said. "He thinks I'm a troublemaker—for some reason."

  I glanced at Brainert, but he shook his head. "It's one thing to believe in Hedda's guilt. It's quite another thing to rat out your business partner. If word ever got around that I'd accused Hedda, and it wasn't true, well . . ."

  "Okay, then I'll do it," I declared. "Frankly, I think by now Chief Ciders would be disappointed if I didn't point out at least one suspect to him."

  The chief caught me watching him through the screen door. He tucked his thumbs into his gun belt and sauntered out to the porch. I noticed Brainert and Seymour fading into the scenery as Ciders approached.

  "You wanted to talk to me, Mrs. McClure?" said the big man, almost politely.

  "Actually, Chief, I do."

  I told Ciders about everything I'd learned over the past two days: the history between Hedda and Pierce Armstrong; the details of Dr. Lilly's newly published book that finally exposed the aging diva as a murderer. Ciders listened. He even nodded a few times. But I could tell from his veiled expression that he wasn't biting.