The Ghost and the Femme Fatale

by Alice Kimberley

  "It's the movies, Parker. Haven't you heard the term popcorn flick?"

  "Theater should be where literature goes at night." Brainert snapped his fingers. "Comprende?"

  Seymour squinted. "English, please."

  "There are enough movie screens in this state devoted to comic-book heroes and computer-animated kiddy schlock," Brainert replied. "Quindicott's Movie Town Theater has a higher purpose: to uphold the light of the modern cinema. We are a regional art house! We do not show popcorn flicks!" He lowered his voice. "Frankly, I'm perturbed that my partners outvoted me on even selling popcorn."

  "You shouldn't be. When it comes to the movie theater business, concessions are where the cash cow moos." With a loud slurp, Seymour sucked on the straw of his extra-large soda. "And correct me if I'm wrong, but your little redecorating job here"-he waved his giant, plastic cup toward the restored art deco columns and shimmering chandeliers-"I'm guessing it all cost a tad more than an associate English professor carries around in mad money."

  With a huff, Brainert turned to face front again.

  "What's wrong?" I asked.

  "I hate it when he's right," Brainert muttered. "And I wish that hot buttered popcorn didn't smell so good. I was so nervous about a crowd showing, I didn't eat a thing at dinner."

  "Well, you shouldn't be nervous anymore." I patted the arm of his blue blazer. "This place is jammed."

  "Ladies and gentlemen, good evening! If you'll all take your seats and quiet down, we'll get started…"

  "Who's that?" I whispered, gesturing to the man who'd just climbed the stairs to the stage.

  "That's Wendell," Brainert informed me. "Dr. Wendell Pepper, dean of St. Francis's School of Communications."

  "Oh, right," I said. "You've mentioned him before. He's one of your fellow investors in the theater, isn't he?"

  "He was also instrumental in getting Hedda Geist to become a partner."

  "Hedda Geist? You mean the famous film noir actress? The one who stars in tonight's movie?"

  "The same. One of the woman's grandchildren was in Pepper's Media Matters class, and he used that connection to meet Hedda and secure her investment." Brainert lowered his voice again. "That's the reason we selected film noir as the theme for our very first festival. The woman insisted we showcase her movies this weekend."

  I raised an eyebrow at that. "Once a diva, always a diva, huh?"

  "Indeed."

  "Well…" I shrugged. "It's a small price to pay for her contribution. Besides, her movies are good."

  "Yes, I know." Brainert shook his head. I only wish her funds had been enough to complete the project. Dean Pepper and I had to go to the college to pony up the final bit of cash. And Pepper didn't much like the idea, I can tell you. It took some real teeth pulling to get him to go out on a limb with me, but look at him tonight! The man's as jolly as the proverbial green giant!"

  Brainert was right. The dean was an attractive, broad-shouldered man in his early sixties with a sturdy profile and salt-and-pepper hair. His attire, pressed chocolate brown slacks and a tweed jacket, was as somber as Brainert's, but his ruddy face was displaying the grin of a grade-school boy on a carnival ride. He looked practically giddy.

  Brainert shook his head. "I still can't get over Dean Pepper's transformation! That man's been an anxiety-ridden wreck for the past year, convinced the restoration would never end. Until a few weeks ago, he was skeptical we could get ten seats sold for the opening-night screening. Just one mention of this theater and he'd give me a look like he was ready to kill."

  "So what changed his mind?"

  "Not what," Brainert told me with a roll of his eyes. "Who." Seymour suddenly leaned forward to interrupt. "Did you say that guy's name is Dr. Wendell Pepper?" "Yes," said Brainert.

  "You're kidding," said Seymour. "Dr. Pepper? Like the soft drink with that old dopey song-and-dance-man commercial?"

  "Don't even go there," Brainert warned.

  "You mean he's not"- Seymour cleared his throat and sang, "the most original teacher in the whole wide world?"

  Brainert rolled his eyes. "Real mature, Tarnish."

  As Dean Pepper waited for the crowd to settle down, he checked his watch and directed a little wave toward a seat in the reserved section, two rows in front of us.

  An attractive woman waved back. From her youthful hairstyle of bouncy, shoulder-length cocoa-brown curls with scarlet highlights, and trendy red-framed glasses, I would have put her age at around forty, but when she turned, the wrinkles betrayed her. She was obviously much older-in her late fifties, maybe, or even a well-preserved sixty. Between plastic surgery, laser treatments, and Botox, who knew what age people were anymore?

  "Is that the dean's wife?" I asked Brainert, pointing to the woman.

  "No," he said flatly. "The dean just got divorced." Then he turned toward the aisle to speak with an usher who'd approached him.

  "Welcome! Welcome, one and all, to the new Movie Town Theater!" Dr. Pepper was now speaking into a standing microphone, which projected his voice through a large, black amplifier, hanging high above him. "What a turnout for the very first film of what I'm sure will be an annual Film Noir Festival! Give yourselves a hand!"

  The crowd did, the college students adding high-pitched whistles and loud woofs.

  "We have quite a lineup of movies and guests this weekend," Dr. Pepper continued. "And this evening we're all in for a real treat. The Poverty Row gem you're about to see was released in 1948, and in the decades following became a recognized classic of the film noir genre. After we've screened the picture, you'll hear much more about it from film historian Dr. Irene Lilly, just one of this weekend's many very special guests-"

  He gave a private little wink toward the rows in front of us, and I noticed that same attractive older woman waving at him again. That must be Dr. Lilly, I decided, and asked Brainert if I was right.

  "No," he said. "That's not Dr. Lilly. That's Maggie Kline." "The screen and television writer?" I asked excitedly. Brainert nodded.

  I'd never met Ms. Kline, but I knew her by reputation. Years ago, she'd written two screenplays in a row for Paramount Pictures that were nominated for Oscars, and she'd penned dozens of teleplays for some of my favorite crime and mystery shows. She'd even published a few suspense novels, too. Her latest book was nonfiction-an encyclopedia of female sleuths. It was a wonderful title, and we'd ordered quite a few copies, hoping to snag her for a signing over the weekend.

  I eyed the way she was looking at Dr. Pepper on stage. "So…" I elbowed Brainert, "is Maggie Kline the mysterious 'who' that's turned Dr. Pepper into a giddy schoolboy?"

  "Isn't it obvious?" Once again, Brainert rolled his eyes. "They've been phoning and e-mailing for months-ever since Dr. Lilly suggested that Maggie Kline be contacted for a guest speaker slot. According to Pepper, they hit it off from the first phone call. Maggie even came out here a week early, just so they could spend time together. He's besotted with her, although I can't imagine why."

  "What do you mean by that?" I asked, automatically feeling defensive. After all, I myself wasn't getting any younger. "She's obviously accomplished-attractive, too, for that matter. Sure, she's no spring chicken, but it's not like Dr. Pepper up there isn't eligible for an AARP card."

  "No, no, Pen. You misunderstand me," said Brainert. "My objection has nothing to do with her age or looks. She lives in Arizona. End of story."

  "Excuse me?"

  "What's he going to do after she goes back there? Take a six-hour plane ride for a dinner date?"

  "Love isn't a function of convenience, Brainert. The heart doesn't work like that."

  "Well, it should. Otherwise, what's he in for? Heartache. Longing. Either that or jet lag."

  "What does it matter to you, anyway?"

  "It matters to me because the second that woman leaves, the dean's going to be in an even fouler mood than he was before, and he always takes his temper out on me! 'Parker, I hope you fully appreciate what I've done, going out on a lim
b with the college, helping you secure that much-needed funding.' ' Parker, what's your plan for the financial viability of the theater?' " Brainert massaged his temples. "I tell you, Pen, I can't take it anymore."

  Before I could suggest reasonable alternatives to Dr. Pepper and Maggie Kline splitting up, Pepper's voice boomed. "Now, without further ado, I'm delighted to give you Wrong Turn…"

  The crowd applauded loudly and Bud Napp, the lanky, silver-haired widower and owner of Napp Hardware, hustled to move Dr. Pepper's standing microphone back into the wings.

  "What's Bud doing on stage?" I whispered.

  "Oh, Bud's been a big help," said Brainert, "along with his part- time construction crew."

  "I didn't know he handled the restoration."

  "He didn't. He just came in for some last-minute stuff- painting and wiring, hanging that public address speaker…"

  Brainert's voice trailed off as the house lights dimmed and the movie started. On the big screen, the Gotham Features logo appeared-white clouds parting to show the dark silhouette of the Empire State Building-and then came the view of a road at night, shrouded in shadowy fog.

  Bright white headlights cut through the mist. A large black sedan rumbled by-the only vehicle on the empty road. Inside the sedan, the driver looked like an average Joe, coming home from a day of sales calls. He wore a cheap suit and battered fedora. His tie was pulled loose and his five o'clock shadow made him look haggard and beaten.

  Then the sedan's headlights lit up a stunning sight. Hedda Geist, the female lead, raced forward, onto the deserted Long Island road.

  The crowd began to applaud. "Hedda, we love you!" cried a young man's voice from the audience.

  She was young and beautiful, with waves of gold flowing over shoulders as creamy smooth as a marble statuette. She looked scared and vulnerable running along in bare feet, wearing a form-fitting gown of shimmering satin, with a plunging neckline and a bow on the bodice.

  "Stop, please!" she called. Her gown was torn off one shoulder. She held it up with one hand while waving at the oncoming car with the other.

  The Joe in the sedan gasped, his leather shoe slammed on the brake, and his car squealed to a halt.

  What's the pitch, sister? Last time I saw this flick, it was 1948. Did somebody dial back the cuckoo or what?

  The gruff voice I'd heard hadn't come from the screen. And it hadn't come from the audience. The voice had come from inside my own head. After a long day of slumber, the ghost of Jack Shepard had finally woken up.

  CHAPTER 2. The Big Drop

  NICK BENKO: You wait around long enough and sooner or later everything falls right in your lap. EDDIE WILLIS: Like rotten apples.

  – The Harder They Fall, 1956

  "KEEP IT DOWN, Jack," I silently warned. "I'm watching a movie."

  I can see that, doll. I'm just surprised Hollywood took a turn for the worse. I thought by now they'd be making new pictures, not recycling the same old lamplit celluloid.

  " Hollywood 's made plenty of new pictures since you… since you… you know… "

  Since I got lead poisoning? Got my ticket punched? My lights put out? What is it with you square Janes? Always tiptoeing around the bare truth. You're completely bughouse about prettying things up-

  "Jack, please! Why don't you just settle back and watch the movie?"

  Because I've seen it before, doll. And it's a B picture-not that the A pictures were that much better. At least New York was filming on the cheap. In my day, Tinsel Town was spending like drunken sailors-$600,000 for one movie. What a scam job. Leaking that kind of scratch for what? Costume and cardboard? A couple of chippies reciting lines off a pile of papers?

  "Jack, we're not in your day anymore. And I'm sorry to tell you that budgets have only gone up. Six hundred thousand won't even cover a Hollywood production's catering bill, which is beside the point anyway. This film isn't being recycled for lack of product. It's part of a retrospective on the film noir genre." The film what genre?

  "Film noir. Don't tell me you've never heard of it. I know you were alive when it first emerged." I named some of the genre's titles to jog his memory.

  Yeah, Okay… Jack admitted. I remember seeing some of those movies, but I can't believe twenty-first-century eggheads are getting hot and bothered about a bunch of B pictures that couldn't afford color. Fancying them up with a French name's about on the level with your generation's buying water in a bottle.

  "Film noir simply means that these films all shared the same dark style and sensibility, especially the black-and-white palette, the morally ambiguous narrative viewpoint, and the realistic locations. All of that was new, revolutionary."

  Realistic locations revolutionary? Listen, I knew some of those Poverty Row guys, working out in Queens. They set up in the streets instead of sound stages for one reason-because they were shooting on the cheap.

  "Okay, but what about the films that featured anti-hero detectives like The Maltese Falcon or The Big Sleep?"

  What about 'em?

  "Weren't you a fan of them?"

  Sweetheart, I didn't need to see 1,001 frames of Humphrey Bogart to tell me how the world turned. Sure, I watched those pictures-when I was tailing cheating spouses or sniffing out blackmailers and scumbag suspects. The balcony always was a nice, dark place for dirty deeds. And the only thing that made those movies worth my dime were the broads. I can't deny those long-legged starlet types were serious whistle bait.

  "You mean like Hedda Geist up there?"

  I waited for Jack to answer. He didn't.

  "Jack?"

  But there was no reply. The ghost had abruptly withdrawn- an annoying habit of Jack's. Shrugging off his sudden departure, I turned my full attention back to the movie screen, where Hedda was playing one of her most famous parts, the femme fatale Sybil Sand.

  With her shimmering, torn silver gown, Hedda flagged down the car driven by the haggard salesman "Joe." He pulled his car over and she pulled him into a web of lies about her "abusive" husband. By the time she was done with him, Joe had murdered Sybil's spouse for her, so Sybil could inherit the man's fortune. Unfortunately, the husband's older sister became suspicious, and Sybil once again called on Joe to kill for her.

  In the last act, Sybil and Joe were on the run, staying one step ahead of the law until Sybil herself fingered the gullible salesman for the two murders, setting him up for the gas chamber, while she (nearly) walked away-except for that bullet in her back, when Joe finally got wise that he'd been played like a piano then tossed like a used toothpick.

  As Wrong Turn's score swelled to a climax and the end credits rolled, I noticed a man moving down the far aisle, then up the side staircase to the theater's stage.

  The man wasn't very old, maybe late twenties, with a bulky body and round, baby face. He wore his blond hair in a ponytail and a Hawaiian shirt over baggy jeans.

  From the wings, hardware store owner Bud Napp loped back out onto the stage. He nodded at the twenty-something man, set up the standing mike, and returned to the wings.

  "Testing, one, two… " murmured Ponytail Man, tapping the mike. The noise came out of the speaker high above his head. The man greeted the audience, and a spotlight shined down from the projectionist's booth, making his gold loop earring sparkle.

  "Who's the clown with the earring?" Seymour asked, leaning forward to stick his head between me and Brainert.

  "That's no clown," Brainert replied. "That's Barry Yello, and he's been a big help organizing this weekend's events-he and

  Dr. Lilly."

  "Oh, right," I murmured, "Barry Yello. I should have recognized him from his book cover photo."

  After dropping out of film school, Yello had founded the influential Internet site FylmGeek.com

  , now read by film students and professionals in Hollywood who routinely left insider comments and opinions in the highly trafficked forum.

  He'd recently published his first book, which-he announced to the crowd-he'd be signing at Buy the Book
over the weekend.

  "Good plug," Seymour whispered in my ear.

  I gave a thumbs-up, even though his book-Bad Barry: My Love Affair with B, C, and D Movies-was only trade paper. Unit for unit, the store made better profit on the hardcovers.

  "Yello's got a loyal following," Brainert assured me. "You'll be moving a lot of them."

  "And now," Barry concluded, "to discuss Wrong Turn better than I ever could, I'd like to introduce a first-rate film historian, Dr. Irene Lilly."

  I glanced through my program to refresh myself on Dr. Lilly's bio. A San Fernando University professor, she was best known as the author of Cities in Shadow, an award-winning study of film noir (in hardcover). But in our e-mail exchanges over the past few weeks, she was quite adamant that her appearance at the festival would be devoted entirely to promoting her brand- new hardcover, Murdered in Plain Sight.

  There was nothing unusual about Dr. Lilly's wanting to promote her front-list title. Traditional author tours and appearances were geared toward exactly that. But I did find it strangely dismissive of Dr. Lilly not to care about her backlist sales, too.

  "Please, Mrs. McClure," she had written, "do not bother stocking my backlist. The new title is the one I wish to promote and sell-and I'll personally handle the order and delivery. Leave everything to me "

  When she took the stage, the slender, fortyish Dr. Lilly appeared relaxed and confident-and very Californian with straight, dark blonde hair tied back into a ponytail. Even Dr. Lilly's attire was California relaxed: Her sundress was a loose shift of pale flowers, her necklace was hemp and natural beads, and her flat leather footwear had more in common with beach flip-flops than evening shoes.

  With Dr. Lilly's laid-back style, however, came no lack of energy. Her voice was strong, and her spirits obviously high as she addressed the crowd.

  "What a treat it is to see Wrong Turn on a big screen, the way it was first shown in 1948! Don't you all agree?"

  The crowd applauded.

  "Wrong Turn is a classic example of film noir… but what is film noir? And why is this American cinematic style described with the French words meaning black film? To explain, I'll have to take you back to the summer of 1946. For years, the French had been cut off from American cinema. Now that the war was over, ten American films were brought over to Paris and released in one six-week period: The Maltese Falcon; Laura; Murder, My Sweet; Double Indemnity; The Woman in the Window; This Gun for Hire; The Killers; Lady in the Lake; Gilda; and The Big Sleep."