The Ghost and the Femme Fatale

by Alice Kimberley

  "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 NoirMuseum

  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 h
er 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.

  "Hedda is eighty years old, Mrs. McClure," he finally replied. "She may be vital for her age, but I doubt she'd have the strength to kill Dr. Lilly or Pierce Armstrong. Those crimes were done by somebody younger, somebody who has at least a bit of physical strength."

  Ciders paused, frowning. "Besides, Dr. Lilly's death was investigated and already ruled an accident by Dr. Rubino-"

  "Rubino!" My temper flared, and I just couldn't curb my tongue. "You can't be dense enough to believe Rubino's conclusion? Not after this! And don't you think it's a little bit curious that Randall Rubino is Hedda Geist's personal physician? And what about Hedda's granddaughter, Harmony? She could very well have been helping her grandmother carry out these crimes."

  "All right, that's enough!" Ciders' beady eyes narrowed. "Accusing Hedda is one thing, impugning our new medical examiner is another. Time to go, Mrs. McClure. I've called in the state for this one. Their crime scene unit will be here any minute, and you and your friends are in the way."

  "But Chief, don't you think the state investigators will want to speak with me? I discovered the body, and-"

  "I have your statement already, Mrs. McClure, and I'll discuss your theories with them myself. If we find any physical evidence that Hedda Geist-Middleton, or Dr. Rubino, or Harmony Middleton, was on these premises, I'll revisit your allegations. Until then… have a good day."

  "But-"

  "That's polite for hit the road. Now!"

  CHAPTER 19. Bombshell

  I like troubled times. They keep the police occupied.

  – Singapore, 1947

  BY THE TIME I drove us all back to the bookstore, Aunt Sadie had just finished hosting another film festival author signing: Barry Yello and his trade paperback Bad Barry: My Love Affair with B, C, and D Movies. He was gone by now, but the aisles were still crowded with high-energy customers. They were aggressively browsing, asking questions, and buying, buying, buying (thank goodness).

  I was also thankful that Mina Griffith was here again today, along with our newest hire, Bonnie Franzetti.

  Eddie's little sister had jumped at the chance to work somewhere other than her family's pizza place, and she'd shown up at our store within an hour of Sadie's call this morning.

  I felt guilty asking Sadie if she'd had a chance to look through the book about Gotham Studios, but I mentioned it anyway.

  "Heavens no, I haven't had a moment," she told me as she rang up another customer's purchase. "But things should settle down in an hour or so, when the festival's matinee begins."

  "Well, I'm here to help," I assured her, taking over behind the check-out counter. "You haven't had lunch. And neither have Mina and Bonnie. Do you want to go first or shall we spell the girls?"

  "Let's have the girls go one at a time," Sadie said. "When they're done, I'll take my break."

  I nodded and turned to the register, started checking out customers. Sadie went to release Mina from the selling floor. That's when Seymour tapped me on the shoulder.

  "You want me to stick around, Pen?"

  "No." I held my palm up to the next customer on line and motioned Seymour to lean closer. "What I want you to do is stake out the Finch Inn," I whispered. "Keep an eye on Hedda, and call me if the woman or her granddaughter does anything out of the ordinary. And don't needle Fiona; she might throw you out."

  "Aye, aye, Skipper. But what are you going to do?" he asked before heading off.

  "For now, I'm going to stay and help Sadie," I said, turning back to the check-out line. And while that was true, I also wanted some time at the store to think things through.

  I'd told Chief Ciders that Hedda was a murderer. She'd killed Irving Vreen sixty years ago. And she'd had the strongest motive to kill Pierce Armstrong and Dr. Lilly. But there were two pieces of the puzzle that still didn't fit, and I knew it.

  So do I, Jack said in my head.

  With a sigh, I had to a
dmit: "If Hedda was behind the killings this weekend, then who set the trapdoor trap for her yesterday? I don't buy the theory that it was meant for Pierce Armstrong. Armstrong and Wendell Pepper both moved across that stage without falling through it. And why would Hedda have joined Dr. Lilly on stage Friday night if she knew it was about to rain audio equipment?" I shook my head. "I don't know, Jack. It doesn't make sense."

  Then keep digging, baby. 'Cause if the pieces don't fit, the puzzle ain't solved.

  AN HOUR LATER, Mina was back from her break. I put her on the register and spelled Bonnie for her lunch. Then I spoke with Sadie about the inventory.

  "Our Film Noir Festival display is looking pretty anemic. Do we have anything in the back that we can bring out?"

  "Not much. We've sold just about every last one of Hedda Geist's coffeetable book, which is excellent news because we really stocked up on that one. Maggie Kline's novels are sold out, too. I'm pretty sure we still have a dozen of her female sleuth encyclopedias in the back, though."

  "Great, I'll go find them and put them on the display table."

  "Oh! Take a look around back there for any more copies of Barry Yello's books. He had a fantastic turnout for his signing, and we sold through everything we brought up front. But people are still asking for it."

  "Okay, I'll see if we have any straggler copies back there."

  I moved through the archway that connected the two storefronts, cut through the now-empty Community Events space, and made my way back to our stock room.

  We had a library-style cart on wheels for moving books back and forth, and I filled it with what I could find-Maggie Kline's Encyclopedia of Women Sleuths; more copies of Barry Yello's Bad Barry: My Love Affair with B, C, and D Movies; even Dr. Lilly's backlist film studies.

  I considered the boxes of Irene Lilly's newly published book, Murdered in Plain Sight, but I decided against putting it out. Things were bad and getting worse. I didn't want to tempt

  fate.

  Instead, I scrounged some more of the backlist titles that we'd featured on our table this weekend. Most film noir fans were pretty savvy about source material. But some of the younger festival attendees were surprised to learn that their favorite noir films were based on novels-which is why I grabbed copies of Double Indemnity and The Postman Always Rings Twice by James M. Cain, The Big Sleep and Lady in the Lake by Raymond Chandler, and The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett.