Eventually, however, he came around; and now he was a completely different child. It was hard for me to admit, but even before Calvin's death, Spencer had been moody and taciturn; sometimes so shy he had trouble making friends. Maybe he'd been reflecting Calvin's own depression and aloofness. Or maybe being in the shadow of a spoiled, lousy, self-absorbed father was just as bad as dealing with the loss of one. (Not that I want to speak ill of the dead.) But my boy was so much happier these days; so much more alive, with blossoming interests and solid grades in school. He even enjoyed helping out at the store; and those terrible nightmares? Gone.
I smiled with that thought as I half-closed my son's door and moved to my own bedroom. Stifling a yawn, I kicked off my low-heeled shoes, changed out of my slacks and blazer, and slipped into my nightshirt. Then I settled under the covers, set my black-framed glasses on the nightstand, and clicked off the light.
Inside my head, however, the light remained on.
Looking at my sleeping son had raised my spirits, filled me with joy and certainty. But in the darkness, something else took over: a vision of what had happened less than an hour earlier, an image of danger and near death.
That huge, black audio speaker had fallen onto the theater stage like the grim reaper looking for a soul. The calm of the audience, followed by the shock, the screams, the chaos… it reminded me of my late husband all over again: of his being right there in our quiet bedroom one moment, and down on the sidewalk the next. I could still hear the shrieks on the street, the squealing of brakes, the sirens.
"There was a flash," I mumbled beneath my bedcovers. "And sparks. Why were there so many sparks? And then that awful smashing noise. Why? Why did it fall?"
My bedroom felt warm, but the temperature rapidly changed. An icy breeze began swirling around me. I opened my eyes. My flowered curtains weren't moving. There was no breeze. No wind; not outside, anyway. Beyond the open window, the black branches of the hundred-year oak appeared still as the grave.
"Jack?" I whispered into the chilly darkness. "Is that you?"
Miss me, baby?
"Where were you?"
Where do you think? I was back here, waiting for you. I'm going to take you out on the town…
"I don't know what you mean… "
Yeah, you do, baby. We've done it before.
"But I want to discuss what happened earlier at the theater. What did you mean by Hedda being 'one accident-prone dame'?"
I'm going to show you. It's something I witnessed years ago, and I want you to see it, too. But you have to close your eyes.
Once more, I tried to argue, but a giant yawn stifled my words. I began to feel incredibly groggy. My eyelids drifted lower, and then everything went black…
"EVERYTHING'S SO BRIGHT!"
Hearing the giggly voice of a teenaged girl, I opened my eyes. People surrounded me, raucous noise, honking car horns, and lights-thousands of lights.
"Where am I?" I whispered.
"Lady, you've got to be kidding!" exclaimed that giggly teenaged girl. "You're in Times Square! Sheesh!"
The girl scampered off with a group of her friends. I blinked and rubbed my eyes, but the bright mirage failed to fade. I was standing in New York 's Times Square-only this wasn't the Times Square I remembered. The surrounding buildings were much lower than during my time, the billboards more primitive, with flashing lightbulbs instead of digital images, and most of them were advertising products I'd never heard of… Kinsey Blended Whiskey? Rupert Beer?
The marquees and landmarks were all wrong, too, I realized. Automat? Hotel Astor Dining? Capitol Theater? Where was the Virgin Records Store? The Bertelsmann Building? The Toys 'R' Us, McDonald's, and towering Marriott?
Streetcars ran on tracks up and down Broadway. Cars the size of small army tanks spewed leaded gasoline fumes; and the men and women jostling me on the sidewalk were attired so formally-suits and fedoras, Sunday-best dresses, and white gloves. Not a pair of shorts, baggy jeans, or sneakers in sight. Not one miniskirt or belly-baring top.
I looked down at my own clothing and gasped. The evening gown I was wearing resembled nothing in my closet. The dress was a strapless, slinky number, a form-fitting golden yellow with black embroidery along the top edge of a shockingly low bodice. Opera gloves, dyed to match the gown, covered three-quarters of my arms, and black, peep-toe pumps with four-inch heels were on my feet.
"What in the name of Sam Hill am I wearing?!"
As a few passersby turned their heads, I felt a sharp tap on my bare shoulder.
"What's the matter, baby? Don't you like it?"
The deep, gravelly voice was one I knew well. It was the voice of Jack Shepard, now attached to the body he'd had in life. A gray fedora sat on his sandy hair; a double-breasted suit was attractively tailored to his broad shoulders and narrow waist; and despite his menacing iron jaw and the ominous dagger-shaped scar on his square, flat chin, he wore an openly bemused expression.
"Ava wore that little number in Singapore. I saw it last year at the Mayfair -or half of it anyway, before my mark took a powder."
"Ava Gardner?" I looked down at my gown again and frowned. "Did she have an acre of cleavage showing, too?"
"Yeah," said Jack. Then his granite-colored eyes took me in from my painted toenails to my upswept hair. With a single finger, he pushed back the front brim of his fedora and gave me a little smile. "But I prefer redheads."
I touched the back of my own shoulder-length auburn hair, now gathered into some kind of twist. I felt old-fashioned bobby pins holding it in place. I also realized that I wasn't wearing my black-framed glasses. I blinked, trying to discern whether my contacts were in. I didn't feel those, either, yet I could see just fine.
"What's this all about? I was trying to talk to you about Hedda Geist and what you implied about-"
"I know. Come on," he said, taking my elbow, none too gently, and hustling me along the sidewalk.
"Easy! Not so fast! I can hardly walk in these torture devices!"
Jack barely slowed. "They're part of the cover, doll. So suck it up and march. You're on a case with me, now, and I'm not putting up with bellyaching."
"Case? What case?!"
Jack didn't answer, just kept hustling me up the block then around the corner. He slowed as we approached a dark green awning. There was no writing on the fabric, no sign on the heavy door.
Jack stopped and glanced down at me. "Got your breath, baby?" Before I could answer he pulled open the door and stood aside. "After you."
"After me? Where am I going?" I peered into the darkness beyond the door. "What is this place?"
"You'll get all the answers you want if you just move your skirt inside."
I tentatively stepped forward, teetering on my ridiculously high pumps.
"Good evening, miss," a voice called from the abyss.
My eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, and I realized I'd stepped into some sort of reception area.
"Do you have a reservation?" A middle-aged man in a tuxedo was addressing me from behind a wooden podium. "Are you meeting someone?"
"I… uh… "
"She's with me," said Jack, stepping up to the maitre d'.
"And do you have a reservation?" The tuxedo-clad man glanced at the large open ledger on his podium.
"We don't have a reservation," Jack replied smoothly, "because, you see, the lady didn't like the Broadway show. So we left early. We've had dinner already, so we'll just be wetting our whistles at the bar until our friends leave the theater across the street. That okay by you?"
Jack palmed the man a bill.
"Of course, sir," said the maitre d'. "Enjoy yourself."
Jack stepped up to me, and I expected him to grab me by the elbow again and hustle me inside. But he didn't. This time, he leaned toward me and offered his arm.
"Oh," I said with an undisguised smirk, "now you're going to act like a gentleman?"
"It's not a proposal of marriage, baby. I'm just trying to make it look g
ood."
"Well, the way you manhandled me on the street, I'd rather not."
I tried taking a few bold strides all by myself, but I had zero practice carrying off four-inch heels beneath a slit-skirted gown, and I nearly fell on my face.
In a flash, Jack was there, propping me back up. "Take a break from Miss Prissland," he rasped in my ear, "and take my arm already."
I knew when I was licked. With a sigh, I wrapped my gloved arm around the gray fabric of his double-breasted jacket and let him escort me into the large dining room.
Two "M" words hit me the second I walked into that place: money and masculinity. The wainscoting and tables were dark, heavy wood. The walls and tablecloths were the forest green of a gentleman's club pool table. And the chandeliers and crystal decanters looked heavy, leaded, and very expensive.
Middle-aged waiters in bow ties, white shirts, and long white aprons moved silently around the buzzing room, serving craggy-faced men in three-piece suits, most of whom were smoking cigars and cutting up thick slabs of red meat with huge steak knives.
The leather booths around the edges of the room were occupied by couples. Almost every woman was young and beautiful; almost every man paunchy, graying, and clearly much older.
One particularly creepy May-December couple caught my eye. Not because of the man, but because of the woman-or, more precisely, the girl. She was very young: seventeen, maybe even sixteen. With the heavy makeup on, I doubted very much she was the man's daughter or niece. And when her fingers began stroking the back of her dinner companion's hand, I threw that theory right out the window-while simultaneously trying very hard not to throw up.
The teen was no raving beauty, more like the girl next door with caramel-colored curls and a dimple in her chin. Her face also looked familiar for some reason, but I just couldn't place it. I could place the silver gown, though: It was the exact satin dress that Hedda Geist had worn in the opening scene of her famous noir picture Wrong Turn.
"What is this place?" I whispered to Jack as we moved across the bare oak floor.
"The Porterhouse."
"A steakhouse?"
"For our purposes, it's a stakeout house." "Excuse me?"
"Take a seat," ordered Jack, gesturing to the bar stool.
I sat and Jack sat next to me. There was only one other couple, at the far end of the polished oak bar, and the young bartender came over to us right away. "What can I get you both tonight?"
"I'll have scotch, straight up, and-" Jack turned to me. "Tell the man what you're drinking, baby."
I tapped my chin in thought. I wasn't a drinker per se, but we did ask to sit at the bar so a soft drink would look conspicuous. "I know," I finally said, "the perfect drink for this occasion would be a Vesper."
The bartender's brow wrinkled. "A what-sper?"
"A Vesper," I said, incredulous the bartender at such an upscale restaurant wasn't familiar with the most famous cocktail recipe in the English-speaking world.
"What's in it?" he asked.
"It's a martini," I told him, "made with three parts gin, one part vodka, and one-half part Lillet."
"Lillet?" The bartender frowned. "Not vermouth?"
"The Lillet adds more sweetness and tropical aromas than dry vermouth," I informed the man. "Or at least that's what I remember from Casino Royale. And, of course, it should be shaken, not stirred, served in a wineglass, and garnished with a lemon twist."
"We stir martinis here, ma'am. Nobody shakes them."
I threw up my hands. "James Bond does!"
The bartender glanced at Jack. "Is that you?"
"Of course he's not James Bond. Bond's the most famous Cold War spy in the world." I glanced around. "What year is this anyway?"
Jack visibly stiffened.
"It's 1948, ma'am," the bartender replied, eyeing me a little closer. "You that blotto?"
"Uh-oh," I said, realizing I'd been off by a few years. The first Ian Fleming Bond novel wouldn't appear until 1953. "I believe I've made a mistake-"
"Listen, buddy," Jack quickly told the bartender, "just give the doll a martini. A gin martini, stirred, and put the damn thing in a martini glass. Thanks."
The bartender walked away, shaking his head, and Jack glared at me.
"What?" I asked.
"Don't you know the meaning of cover? You're supposed to blend in, keep a low profile, be a fly on the wall-not order a drink from another century!"
"Cut me a break, okay? James Bond was invented in the twentieth century. I was only off by a few years."
The bartender returned with Jack's Scotch and my stirred, gin martini in a martini glass. He dropped two napkins and placed the drinks on top, shaking his head as he set mine down.
"So, ma'am, I'm curious," said the bartender. "What's a 'Cold War,' anyway? Another type of cocktail?"
Jack tossed the man a large bill. "Keep it," he said. "We won't be needing refills anytime soon. We'd just like our privacy. Got it?"
"Of course, sir." The bartender nodded. "Privacy is what the Porterhouse is all about."
Jack knocked back some scotch and closed his eyes. I sipped my martini and waited. When the PI opened his eyes again, he began casually scanning the room.
"Are you going to enlighten me anytime soon?" I whispered.
"There's a booth at your three o'clock," Jack said, holding the scotch glass up to his mouth. "Now do exactly what I say. Cross your legs and as you cross them, slowly turn your bar stool halfway around. Keep taking sips of your cocktail as you take a casual look around the room."
I did what Jack told me. As I crossed my legs, the slit in my gown showed a flash of stocking-clad thigh. Jack's eyes found it, and he stopped speaking for a full minute.
"Jack?"
"See the painting of Seabiscuit?" he whispered, his eyes still on my legs.
"Seabiscuit? Excuse me? Why am I looking at a picture of a racehorse?"
"Not the horse, doll, the booth underneath it. See the paunchy man sitting there, the one with the thinning brown hair and pale face. Seated across from him is-"
"A very young woman in a silver gown," I whispered back. "Yes, I see them both."
"They're it, doll. They were my meal ticket back here in '48."
"What's the name of the case? I still have your files in my stockroom. They're a total mess, all out of order, but I can try to find the file."
"Don't bother, baby. You won't find it."
"Why not?"
"Let's stick to the business at hand."
"Fine," I said. "I was going to tell you anyway. I noticed that young woman on our way in. She looks familiar to me for some reason. I'm sure I've seen her before, but I can't place her face."
"She looks familiar to you?" Jack finally moved his gaze off my gams. He sipped at his Scotch a moment, obviously considering my words. "But you weren't even born yet, doll. So how could you have seen her before?"
"I don't know… who's the creep she's with?"
"That's Nathan Burwell, the district attorney," Jack said. "His wife's the one who hired me. That's why I was here to-night. I was tailing Burwell, documenting his little trysts with Miss Innocent over there. In case you haven't noticed, this place is full of cheating Charlies. That maitre d' is as good as an army sentry. If you'd showed up without me, a dame alone, you would have been turned away."
"But that's discriminatory!"
"That maitre d' wouldn't have taken the chance that you were a wife, snooping up on the old hubby. Anyway, Mrs. Burwell wants a divorce and she wants her money, which means the DA's got to go away quietly-so she hired me to gather the dirt."
"And how exactly are you gathering it?"
"Detailed notes on where, when, and how long. Witnesses when I can get them. Photographs when I can set the pair up without their noticing."
"But I still don't understand, Jack. What does Burwell and his disturbingly young mistress have to do with Hedda Geist? Other than the girl's gown."
Jack frowned. "What do you mean the
girl's gown?" What's with the girl's gown?"
"It's the same outfit Hedda wore in Wrong Turn. Don't you see it? The plunging neckline, the bow at the bodice, the way the shimmering silver satin is cut? It's the exact gown Hedda wore when she ran onto the dark road. Remember? The shoulder of the gown was torn in the picture. She was holding it up with one hand. But in the original movie poster for Wrong Turn it looks exactly like that."
"I don't believe it," Jack muttered.
"Believe what?"
"Believe you caught something I missed… but you did. You're right on the money. She's wearing the same gown, all right."
I smiled, proud of myself. "Thanks." "Don't let it go to your head. We're not nearly finished here."
"What else is there to do?"
"You remember what I said back in your hayseed town-" "Quindicott is not a hayseed town, Jack. It's a quaint New England hamlet-"
"Drive me buggy later, okay? I'm trying to tell you something here. After that accident with the falling speaker at your egghead friend's movie theater, do you remember what I said?"
"Yes, of course. You implied that Hedda had been involved with another accident. But I don't see Hedda in the room."
"You will," Jack promised before another sip of Scotch.
Within minutes, Hedda Geist did show, just as Jack promised. The actress was young again and gorgeous, gliding into the exclusive steakhouse looking like the starlet she was, her stunning figure hugged by a seductively sheer gown of pale pink. The halter top showed off her creamy shoulders, the tight bodice flattered her hourglass curves, and a pearl choker complimented her long neck.
Jack's eyes-along with every other red-blooded male's in the restaurant-were drawn to the dazzling blonde, following her across the dining room on the arm of an incongruous escort.
Like every other couple in this restaurant, Hedda's date was twice her age. He was bald, had a slight build, and a rather short stature. With her heels on, Hedda was at least two inches taller.
"That's Irving Vreen," Jack whispered. "He's the head of Gotham Features, the studio in Queens that made her the star of their B pictures."
"Knowing how well those pictures did for the studio, I'd say it was the other way around. It was Hedda who made Gotham Features."
The Ghost and the Femme Fatale Page 4