The Ghost and the Femme Fatale - Haunted Bookshop 04

by Alice Kimberley

  Eddie gently pushed by me, pressed his fingers against Barry's carotid artery. "He's dead."

  Using his police radio, he called for an ambulance and backup. Only a few people remained in the auditorium, watching us curiously. But Eddie and I knew there was a mob of people waiting in the lobby to come in for the next showing.

  "Pen, wait here, and don't let anyone get near him. I've got to secure the auditorium," Eddie took two steps up the aisle, and then he stopped to tell me again. "Stay here, Pen. I mean it. Chief Ciders is going to want to hear your story, and you're going to have to answer a lot of questions."

  I nodded dumbly, staring at the back of Barry's head. I remained that way for what seemed like a long time, until I was finally shaken from my numbed paralysis by Jack's voice bellowing in my head.

  Hey, Penelope! What the hell are you doing? Wake up! Get to work!

  "Work? What do you mean, Jack? What do you want me to do?"

  First, look for cause of death. Search him for bullet holes, a knife wound—any sign of violence. Find out what exactly killed this lug.

  I shook my head clear and took a deep breath. I didn't want to disturb a crime scene. On the other hand, with people dropping like flies, I knew somebody had to solve this case. At least Jack was here. He was an ex-cop, not just a dead private dick. He wouldn't steer me wrong—I hoped.

  Have a little faith, baby.

  "Okay, okay... "

  I took tentative steps forward, approaching the corpse until popcorn crunched under my shoes. Barry had worn another Hawaiian shirt today; this one was yellow and green, and it was clear there were no holes, not even any bloodstains.

  "He wasn't stabbed or shot," I told Jack. "Not that I can see."

  You're missing something. Keep looking.

  "For what, Jack?! There's a soda here and a bunch of spilled buttered popcorn. Maybe clogged arteries killed him!"

  Maybe you're onto something.

  "What?"

  Something he ate or drank, doll. Maybe he was poisoned.

  "Poisoned!" I crouched low, and stared into Barry's dead face. His eyes were half-open, the pupils dilated. There were flecks of foam around his lips.

  "Oh, my god. I think he was poisoned."

  I looked down at my wet shoes and slacks.

  "And I think I have the stuff all over me."

  Check the seat next to him. If someone gave the poor stiff the joy juice that killed him, it's possible the killer sat down next to Ponytail Man, just to make sure he drank it, and maybe to make sure he stayed upright in his seat until the show was over.

  There was nothing left behind on the seat beside Barry. But as soon as I got close, I smelled something—the cloying scent of orange blossoms.

  I'd only smelled that fragrance once before . . . in my bookshop, during an author signing. "It's Vouloir!" I realized. "Hedda Geist-Middleton's signature scent!"

  Nice nose, baby.

  "Thanks. But Jack... " I shook my head. "It seems so obvious. Did Hedda really come here and poison Barry to shut him up? Or . . . do you think maybe Harmony could have borrowed her grandmother's perfume?"

  Good question, doll, because that's a good setup, too. Borrowing Granny's perfume to frame the old dame. That way, if Harmony is involved, the clue will throw the cops off her scent . . . literally.

  I pulled out my cell phone and tried to call Seymour. Unfortunately, I couldn't get a signal right away, so I had to pace around the theater. Finally I found a spot where I got a decent signal, but when I called I got Seymour's voice mail.

  "Call me as soon as you get this message," I told him. "I need to know if you located Hedda, and I need to know her exact movements over the past hour. It's urgent!"

  I closed my phone and it beeped. I had received a message myself, probably while I was out of range.

  "It's Brainert." His tone sounded urgent. "I'm here with Sadie at the store and guess what? She found something in that out-of-print book about Gotham Features. Something that's going to blow this thing wide open. Don't bother to call. Get back here as soon as possible. It's a matter of life and death."

  I closed the phone and looked around. The auditorium was empty now, except for me and Barry Yello's corpse. But from the lobby, I could hear Eddie shooting orders to the crowd. Far away, I heard sirens.

  I raced all the way to the front of the theater and climbed the stairs to the stage. I hurried down the backstage staircase to the basement, and ran to the steel fire door, which led to the alley.

  Before I pushed it open, I switched off the alarm system, just like Bud had showed me the previous night.

  A minute later, I exited the alley. On Cranberry Street, lights flashed and sirens wailed. I took off in the opposite direction, toward Buy the Book, my wet shoes squishing with every step.

  I started to gripe about how gross the squishing felt when Jack cut me off.

  If I were you, doll, I'd count my lucky stars.

  "Why's that?"

  'Cause I worked plenty of crime scenes in my day, and when it comes to walking around fresh corpses, there's a lot worse things to step in than soda pop.

  CHAPTER 21

  Dying for Dinner

  JOHN: You're a bitter little lady. EVELYN: It's a bitter little world.

  —Hollow Triumph, 1948

  "I'M BACK," I called, pushing through Buy the Book's front door.

  The shop was still busy. Aunt Sadie was back behind the counter, ringing up sales. Brainert had been waiting for me in one of our overstuffed chairs. He leaped to his feet the second he spotted me.

  "Where have you been?" he demanded.

  "I went looking for Barry Yello at the Comfy Time Motel. You won't believe what I found."

  Aunt Sadie turned the cash register over to Mina. Then she tucked the Gotham Features hardback under her arm, along with a few other books, and led Brainert and me back to the shop's storeroom, where we could speak in private.

  As soon as the door closed, I told them what I learned about Barry Yello, ending with the grisly scene at the Movie Town Theater, and the scent of Hedda's rare orange blossom perfume Vouloir.

  My aunt couldn't believe that the FylmGeek.com guru had been murdered. "We heard the sirens," she said, "but we didn't know what was going on. He was poisoned, you say?"

  "I think the killer laced Barry's soda, which ended up spilling all over me."

  Sadie glanced at my saturated slacks. "Bag them when you change your clothes. The forensics people will want them."

  "So you saw everything?" Brainert asked.

  "Well, I didn't see the poisoning, if that's what you mean. But I found Yello's body. Unfortunately, I disobeyed Eddie Franzetti's command to stay put. I took off before the police could grill me. Any minute, I expect Chief Ciders to come stomping into our store looking for my statement, so talk fast."

  Sadie opened her book on the history of Gotham Features Studio. Just like Fiona, she'd attached Post-its to several pages. She flipped the pages to one of them.

  "In the last chapter, we found this passage about Irving Vreen," Sadie said. She took the glasses that dangled around her neck—today's chain was faux-pearl—and balanced them on the tip of her nose.

  " 'Within three years after Vreen's death, his wife passed away,' " she read aloud. "The studio, already close to bankruptcy, went into receivership and its assets were sold off. With the family fortune gone, Vreen's daughter, Margaret, twelve at the time, was adopted by a family friend, Sydney Kline, a production chief at Paramount Studios."

  "Irving Vreen's daughter was named Margaret . . . as in Maggie?" I said. "And she was adopted by a man named

  Kline?"

  "That's right," Brainert replied. "And look here . . ."

  He snatched a paperback from Sadie's pile. It was one of Maggie Kline's mystery novels.

  "I thought we'd sold out of those," I said.

  "This is my personal copy," Aunt Sadie replied.

  Brainert opened the book to the About the Author page. "Look her
e," he said, tapping it. "Maggie's biography says she's the adopted daughter of Sydney Kline, an executive at Paramount Studios." His eyes met mine. "Maggie Kline must be Margaret Vreen."

  "Oh my god," I said. "Any chance it's just a wild coincidence? Is she even the right age?"

  Brainert nodded. "I've already done the math—Maggie comes off as a youthful spirit, but she just turned sixty-nine. Wendell confirmed it for me. Her age is exactly right. She would have been twelve in 1951, when her mother died and she had to be adopted out to a family friend."

  "If Maggie Kline is Vreen's daughter, then she has every reason to want to pick up where Dr. Lilly left off," I said. "Once she reads Dr. Lilly's book, she may even want to see Hedda prosecuted for her father's murder."

  Sadie nodded. "If Hedda knows who Maggie really is, then she must know the woman is a terrible threat, and Maggie's life may very well be in danger."

  Brainert nodded grimly. "We have to warn Maggie before the festival dinner tonight." He glanced at his watch. "Speaking of which, I have to go home and change. I'm expected to co-host this event so I have to arrive early."

  I remembered my own damp slacks and soggy shoes. "I'll meet you at Chez Finch. Hopefully Seymour's there already, and he can keep things under control until we arrive."

  Brainert left and Aunt Sadie went to the front of the store to close up for the day. My cell phone rang and I answered.

  "You called?" Seymour said.

  "Where are you!" I cried.

  "In the lobby of the Finch Inn, waiting for Hedda to come down to the big dinner. She went upstairs thirty-five minutes ago and hasn't budged since."

  "Where was Hedda before that?"

  "Our diva told Fiona she was going on a long walk, but Fiona didn't know where. I followed the trails around the pond but saw no sign of her. Finally I gave up and came back to the inn. That's when Hedda returned."

  I pondered the time line and realized Hedda's "walk" provided more than enough time for her to poison Barry Yello and stroll back to the inn, with no one the wiser.

  "Where's Harmony?" I asked.

  "Missing in action, so far. No eye candy for me today."

  "Well, don't take your eyes off Hedda until I get there!" I commanded. "I'm convinced she's a murderer, and I don't think she's done killing yet."

  "Whoa, hold on. Give me some kind of heads-up. Who do you think Hedda is going to kill next?"

  "No thinking about this one. I'm sure Hedda's next victim is Maggie Kline."

  I CHANGED AS fast as I could, tearing off my saturated clothes and stuffing them into a plastic bag. I washed my legs and feet off in the tub, grabbed an old, black cocktail dress from my closet and zippered it on, then slipped on patent leather slingbacks and grabbed my evening clutch.

  Just as I was about to race out of the apartment, I turned around, ran back to my bedroom, and reached into my leather shoulder bag. I quickly transferred Jack's old buffalo nickel to my black purse.

  "Okay, Jack," I whispered. "Come on!"

  Good girl. I can't watch your back if you don't take me with you!

  Minutes later, I was swerving my Saturn into Chez Finch's crowded parking lot. By now the sun had set and the restaurant was radiant in the deepening twilight. Light streamed through its romantic French doors and arched windows, reflecting off the water and giving the entire scene a golden glow. Laughing couples in 1940s' costumes were already crowding the entrance, with more jovial guests crossing the parking lot.

  I'd just climbed out of my Saturn when I spied Maggie Kline rolling across the lot, behind the wheel of Dean Pepper's Lexus. She probably thought I was crazy, the way I waved her down.

  "Stop, Maggie! Please stop!"

  "Whoa, Mrs. McClure, what's up?" she called through the open window.

  "I have to speak with you, it's urgent," I said. "It's about Hedda Geist- Middleton."

  Maggie frowned. She jerked her head toward the empty passenger seat beside her. "Get in."

  I climbed into the car. Maggie was dressed casually in jeans, a pressed white cotton shirt, and scarlet high-top sneakers. She circled around the lot until she found a spot well away from the other cars, near the path that led to the lighthouse. I saw the parade of solar lights marching up the trail into the darkening woods.

  Maggie cut the engine, released her seatbelt, and faced me. "Okay, Mrs. McClure, I'm all ears. What's this about?"

  "Hedda is going to try to kill you tonight," I blurted out. Then I slowed down and told Maggie everything I'd discovered so far, ending with a personal revelation.

  "I know Maggie Kline is not the name you were born with. I remember you said people in Hollywood change their names all the time. You did, too, didn't you? Only not for a casting call. You changed your name when your father and then your mother died, and you were adopted. Your real name is Margaret Vreen, isn't it?"

  In the uncertain light, I could see the pained surprise on her face. People often liked to bury their pasts, and I hated to invade her privacy, but this was life or death.

  "You're right," Maggie said nodding slowly. "My father was Irving Vreen. The past was difficult for me, and I've done my best over the years to leave it behind me. It hasn't been easy. Every day of my life, I've lived with what happened—not just to my father, but to my mother, and to me. But listen, Penelope, just because Hedda was involved in my father's death, it doesn't mean she wants to kill me, too."

  "No, Maggie, don't you see? Hedda's already killed Pierce Armstrong, the last witness to your father's murder. She killed the woman who wrote about it, too. Dr. Lilly was on the verge of making the Vreen murder big headline news again, maybe even the next big retro Hollywood crime story. With Pierce Armstrong's interviews I'm sure she could have done it, too. Obviously, Hedda didn't want that to happen. She murdered your father in cold blood sixty years ago. She let Pierce take the fall for her while she blackmailed a district attorney and exploited his statutory rape of an underage girl. Then she got off scott free!"

  I took a breath. Maggie was still staring at me. She looked a little shocked that I knew so much, that I knew the whole story.

  "Hedda Geist may have been a blonde beauty in her day," I added, "but the truth of her life is bitterly ugly, and if the details hit today's news cycles, it would ruin any standing she'd worked to gain for herself and her children. You're the only one left, Maggie. Don't you see that? Once you're gone, there's no one left to threaten Hedda Geist anymore."

  Maggie's eyes glazed over; she seemed to be processing my flood of words. I couldn't blame her. It was a lot to take in.

  "Okay," she finally said, "but even if everything you say is true, I think I should make an appearance at the dinner. Hedda can't murder me in plain sight, Penelope. Can she?"

  "I suppose you're right," I said. "If we act naturally, we may be able to trap Hedda."

  "I'm glad you told me all this," Maggie said as she reached for a huge tote bag in the backseat. She pulled it up front and set it down between us. Then she glanced up and appeared to see something out the window on my side of the car.

  "Is that her now?" Maggie asked. "Is that Hedda over there on that path?"

  I turned, giving Maggie my back so I could peer through my passenger-door window. I could see the dimly lit trail to the Charity Point Lighthouse. But I couldn't make out anyone on it.

  Next to me, I heard Maggie open the zipper on the tote bag. Almost immediately, I smelled something familiar—orange blossoms? The cloying, familiar scent was so strong it quickly filled the car's interior.

  I frowned, still squinting into the dark for any sign of Hedda. But my mind was quickly wondering—"What's Maggie Vreen Kline doing with Vouloir, the signature perfume worn by Hedda Geist-Middleton? The same scent I detected near Barry Yello's corpse?"

  Look out, doll! Jack bellowed in my head.

  I whirled around to see Maggie with a heavy metal flashlight in her hand. She'd pulled it out of her tote and was raising it to brain me!

  Move, baby! Now!
>
  Freezing cold air blew in my face. The shock of Jack's icy blast made me rear back away from Maggie at the last possible moment. I slammed against the car's passenger window, and the heavy swinging flashlight missed my head by inches, connecting hard with my thigh instead.

  "Ahhh!"

  Pain shot through my leg. Maggie quickly swung again, but this time I was ready. I put my left arm up to deflect the blow from my head, and she clipped my elbow this time. Stinging tears sprang to my eyes. But I was still conscious. And alive.

  "Thanks, Jack."

  Don't thank me yet, baby. Fight! Maggie raised her arm again, ready to strike. Grab her wrist, doll. Keep her from swinging. Then clock her yourself!

  I lunged for her wrist, gripped it with my left hand, then swung at her jaw with my balled-up right fist, just like Jack advised. It was a clumsy attack. My hand missed Maggie, flailed backward, and bounced off the steering wheel. I yelled in pain—

  Swing again, babe! Don't stop till she does!

  I did. I swung again. This time I struck flesh—hard. Maggie grunted and her head snapped back. She slumped forward, her torso hanging over the steering wheel. I shook her, but her movements were like a rag doll's. The woman was out cold.

  My thigh was bruised, my hand was throbbing, and my elbow was stinging something awful. I cradled my wounded joint until the agony faded to a dull but persistent ache.

  In the struggle, Maggie's tote bag had spilled across the front seat. I saw an airline ticket among the debris. I picked it up and read the itinerary; then I glanced in the backseat and saw a small suitcase on the floor.

  "Maggie never intended to go to the dinner tonight," I realized. "She booked a flight out of Providence, departing in two hours."

  Back to Arizona? Jack asked.

  "No. This ticket's for an international flight to Costa Rica!"

  With Maggie's flashlight, I searched through the stuff that had spilled out of the tote. I spied a small glass vial. It looked medicinal but I couldn't read the prescription l abel—it was written in Spanish. And the vial was empty.