The Ghost and the Dead Deb

by KIMBERLY, ALICE

  Then I screamed.

  CHAPTER 20

  The Getaway

  I’m the sucker in this deal. You’re the smart guy.

  —Raymond Chandler, “Blackmailer’s Don’t Shoot,” Black Mask magazine, 1933 (featuring Philip Mallory, the precursor to Philip Marlowe)

  I WAS SICKENED, horrified, panicked. I picked up the flashlight and blindly ran. Branches clawed my head and arms, scrub brush tore my slacks, stones invaded my sandals.

  Baby, wait! Slow down!

  Jack tried to stop me, but I wasn’t a hardened ex-cop turned P.I. with a hundred crime scenes in my past and a gun strapped under my shoulder for protection. I was a widowed single mother completely lost—and in over my head.

  Penelope!

  The sound of my own name finally broke through. I couldn’t remember the last time Jack had called me anything but doll or baby. My steps slowed.

  “Jack . . . it was . . . Victoria Banks . . . ,” I rasped, trying to catch my breath. “She was strangled, just like Angel . . . with yellow rope . . .”

  I want you to calm down, go back to that body, and take a closer look.

  “No, Jack. I have to get out of here. I have to call the police.”

  But . . .

  Jack kept talking, but I wasn’t listening. I continued moving along the path, not sure where I was going, just as long as it was away from those grotesque remains. My heart was beating faster than moth wings against a porch light, and my palms were so slick with sweat I almost dropped the flashlight.

  When it felt to me as if I’d run far enough, I began sweeping the milky beam in wide arcs to either side of the trail, looking hard into the woods until, thankfully, I caught a glimpse of Bud’s red pickup about twenty feet away. I jogged through the trees toward it. From there, I made my way back to my Saturn.

  I opened the trunk, ripped a section of paper towel off the roll I kept there, carefully transferred the bullet into it, put it in my pocket, and threw my blouse back on. Inside the car, I pulled out the small silver cell phone I had thrown into my purse earlier.

  Baby, what are you doing?

  I opened the phone. The display screen’s neon green lit the pitch dark interior of the Saturn with an eerie glow. “What do you think I’m doing?” I snapped aloud. “I’m calling the police. Then I’m waiting right here until they arrive and I’m going to tell them everything.”

  I understand why you want to do that, but take my advice. Don’t.

  “Why?”

  You hid Johnny in your back room when you knew the police were looking for him, that’s why. You withheld evidence to protect him, you’re in the middle of the woods after having tampered with more evidence and you don’t have a get out of jail free ticket—

  “What are you talking about? This is murder, not Monopoly!”

  Listen up, doll. A ‘get out of jail free ticket’ is a private investigator’s license. Something you don’t possess, the last time I checked, and if you’re not careful, they’ll start looking at you with accessory and obstruction charges.

  “But you were the one who suggested we come out here!”

  Don’t go soft on me now, sister. You were the one who asked for my help on this case—even employed a little emotional blackmail as I recall. I was the one said you better take a few swimming lessons before you jumped into the deep water. Well, it’s too late to turn back. You’re not just involved, you’re in over your head, and there’s only one thing to do when you get on a ferry like this . . . ride it all the way to the other side of the river.

  “What river would that be, Jack, the river Styx?”

  Don’t get cute.

  I collapsed backward against the car seat and closed the cell phone. “I’m not going back out there. I mean it.”

  A long silence followed.

  “Jack?”

  Start the engine.

  I did.

  Now drive.

  AT A DESERTED rest stop along the highway, I pulled up to a pay phone and called the State Police. Doing my best to disguise my voice, I told them I saw a dead body in the woods behind the Comfy-Time Motel, gave them a good idea of where to look, added that I didn’t want to get involved, and hung up.

  Then I drove home, checked on my sleeping Spencer, and went to bed. It would be many hours, however, before I could calm down enough to go to sleep.

  “Jack? I don’t know what to do with this . . . Victoria was strangled so close to Johnny’s truck . . . and with that same yellow rope he’s been carrying in his pickup . . . but Johnny’s not some sort of a sick killer who strangled Bethany, Angel, and Victoria. He just can’t be!”

  My head was pounding. In my sleeveless cotton nightgown, I rose from the bed and went to the bathroom. In the mirror, my shoulder-length reddish-brown hair looked a tangled mess. My arms were covered with unsightly scratches, and the expression in my bloodshot green eyes appeared crazed. I took two aspirin, knocked it back with tap water, and groaned.

  Take it easy, kid . . . you’re making yourself sick.

  “I’ll be fine.” I doused the cuts on my arms with antibacterial spray.

  You see why my racket ain’t for the faint of heart? You see why I didn’t want you involved?

  I ignored that and went back to the bedroom. “All three of these young women had been strangled,” I continued reasoning as I sat down on the mattress, “and what Milner said earlier was right . . . I’ve also read enough thrillers to know that light strangulation during sex is a kinky turn-on for some individuals, which can lead to a form of auto-erotic death.”

  That’s right.

  “There was a case in New York City some years ago involving a wealthy East Side debutante and a prep school classmate—the sexual experimentation had gotten out of hand and the girl had ended up dead. I want to believe Johnny’s innocent . . . he has to be for Bud’s and Mina’s sake . . . but, Jack, how do I prove it?”

  The room went quiet. Too quiet. Then the ghost said, Maybe you don’t.

  “I can’t accept that.”

  I know.

  “So who killed Victoria, Jack? Who killed Angel? Who killed Bethany?”

  You aren’t going to figure that one out tonight. And that’s an angle you’ve got to master in this game, baby. It’s like a trick knot. The harder you pull, the tighter it gets. Listen up now, are you listening . . . ?

  “Yes, Jack.”

  You’ve got to learn to relax. Let your troubles make a getaway for a night.

  “I can’t.”

  You can.

  “I don’t think I can . . .”

  Try.

  I clicked off the lamp, lay back on the mattress, hugged a pillow, and sighed. “When you were alive, what did you do to relax?”

  Me? Jack laughed. Two ways, baby . . . You want to hear them?

  “Sure.”

  First way: a bottle of good Scotch—

  “I’d prefer white wine.”

  Vino works, too . . .

  “And the second way?”

  Jack laughed again, but this time the sound was deep and low and very male. Close your eyes, he whispered, I’ll show you . . .

  The cool kiss of his presence breezed up the length of my thin nightgown, making me shiver in the warm room. “No, Jack.”

  Come on, baby, I can give you a dream you’ll never forget.

  I blushed. “Jack, please don’t.”

  More male laughter.

  All right, Miss Priss. Then why don’t you just get your mind off your friend Johnny’s case by putting it on another.

  “Another what?”

  Another case. When a homicide stumped me, I’d read up on other cases. Where’s that Stendall file you carried up here?

  I sat up, clicked on the lamp, shoved on my black-framed glasses, and fished the file out of the nightstand drawer. Inside the dusty beige folder, I found a surprisingly neat and orderly collection of documents. The first was a typewritten list of expenses—dinners, taxis, pay phone calls. Clipped to the ba
ck were receipts, yellowed with age but still readable. I rifled through them.

  “Little Roma,” I read aloud. “O’Donnell’s Pub, Club Creole, Chop Suey, Pirate’s Cave, The Bar Car, McSorley’s Old Ale House, Le Parisian . . . Looks like you had an awful lot of night’s out with this case.”

  Most were the client’s idea, not mine. But you can skip all that, baby. Find my report.

  Beneath the log, I found a neatly typed document. I pulled it out and skimmed the first page . .

  Jack Shepard

  Private Investigations

  August 7, 1946

  Emily Stendall

  Protection and Investigation into Threats

  July 19, 1946 - August 5, 1946

  On the afternoon of Friday, July 19, 1946, the Client, Miss Emily Stendall of 67 East 65th Street, entered my office and retained me to provide her with protection. According to Miss Stendall, the Subject, Joey Lubrano, an elevator operator in her building, and residing at 16 East 7th Street, had made threats to her regarding her safety.

  Also according to Miss Stendall, Mr. Lubrano had carried on an affair with her sister, Mrs. Sarah Nolan, also a resident of 67 East 65th Street. During this affair, Mr. Lubrano took photos of Mrs. Nolan in various states of undress and in lewd poses. Mr. Lubrano had promised these photos would remain private but later used them to blackmail her.

  Mrs. Nolan also confided in Miss Stendall that she had arranged an exchange with Mr. Lubrano but the night it was to take place, Mrs. Nolan was found drowned in her bathtub, under the influence of a combination of alcohol and sleeping pills. Mr. Lubrano having had a solid alibi was not held by the police. The death was ruled accidental.

  Miss Stendall believed that Mr. Lubrano took the money, kept the photos and negatives, drugged Mrs. Nolan, and drowned her. The police agreed to search Mr. Lubrano’s residence but recovered no evidence and, with no evidence from the medical examiner’s office that her death was a homicide, the case was dropped.

  Mr. Lubrano, now in the clear, approached and threatened Miss Stendall. In her words: “He threatened me just the other day, told me to keep my mouth shut from now on or he’d shut it permanently—just like he did my sister’s.”

  The Client speculated that Mr. Lubrano still had the incriminating photos and would begin a second blackmailing scheme, this one perpetrated on the deceased’s husband.

  After my initial interview of the Client, I dined with her at Little Roma. Afterwards, we took a cab to her 65th Street apartment. There, I observed Mr. Lubrano operating the elevator, as she had claimed, and I found him to be hostile to her, as she had claimed.

  After I physically discouraged the Subject from advancing on my Client, I instructed Miss Stendall, for her own safety, to pack her belongings and leave the premises with me. She agreed to check into the Plaza Hotel and invited me to stay with her. I declined. . . .

  I raised an eyebrow at those last lines. “What does it mean that your client invited you to ‘stay with her’ at the Plaza? Did she have a suite with a second bedroom?”

  No, baby.

  “Then she wanted you to . . .”

  Heat up her sheets, do the horizontal tango, go to bed with her, what do you think?

  “But you declined, right? It says right here you did.”

  That night.

  “Excuse me?”

  I had work to do that night—putting a tail on Lubrano. But the invitation from Miss Stendall to share her bed became a standing one, and I took her up on it the next night.

  “You slept with your client?”

  Yeah, baby. And more than twice.

  I shook my head. “I just can’t believe you did that.”

  Why not?

  “Because in the Jack Shield books, Jack never slept with a client, even when tempted. He said it would compromise the investigations and—”

  These aren’t Jack Shield’s files you’re reading, baby, these are Jack Shepard’s—the files of a real man, who lived a real life, and made real mistakes.

  “So you admit it was a mistake to sleep with Miss Stendall? That it was unethical?”

  Technically.

  “Then why did you do it?”

  She was a knockout and she was hot for me, and I went to bed with her . . . and, boy, but if I didn’t call that one on the money.

  “What?”

  You’ve been avoiding my files because you were afraid of what you’d find.

  “No—”

  Yes. You don’t like the look of the truth, so you just don’t want to see it—especially when it’s about people you care about and it’s not pretty. But you better be ready to believe the worst about people, because that’s the name of this game you’re in now.

  I frowned as I considered Jack’s charge. It was true that during my disastrous marriage I’d refused to see my husband for what he was . . . and, during the marriage, I’d blinded myself to my in-laws manipulations and insults, taking in silence whatever they’d dish out by telling myself they were simply trying to “help” or that they meant well and really didn’t mean to come off as disparaging. But I’d woken up to all of it eventually (after they began to blame me for Calvin’s suicide and began “advising” me—during my vulnerable period of mourning—that the “best thing” for Spencer was to send him away to English boarding school). Still . . . Jack wasn’t wrong that I did prefer to focus on the good in people.

  “I’ll admit I don’t want to see the worst in people I care about,” I confessed, “or even strangers for that matter. I mean, I hate to think any person is capable of stealing a book from our store, let alone a triple murder. But this isn’t just about me. It’s also about you.”

  Why do you think I’m stuck here in limbo, sweetheart? If I were a saint, don’t you think I’d be playing a harp about now?

  “There you go again, implying your life trapped in an independent bookstore is akin to eternal damnation. Well, I’m not buying it. You may not be playing a harp at the moment, but you can’t have been all bad, or else you’d have gone a lot farther south than Rhode Island—and I’m not talking Cartegña, Mr. Shepard . . .”

  Jack snorted. We’re getting off the subject. Keep reading.

  I did and found the report impressive. Despite the copious use of outdated slang in his thoughts to me, Jack knew how to write well—or at least put two ideas together on paper. It was also clear he had a highly organized mind.

  “I can see why Timothy Brennan found your files such a rich source of information for his books. You’re very thorough . . .”

  Thanks, baby. Chalk it up to my time in army intel. If you didn’t write it up right, somebody down the line would get it in the neck. Literally.

  I nodded and kept skimming the file. It seemed Jack hadn’t just checked out Joey Lubrano’s story, he’d also checked out Emily Stendall’s. I yawned as I continued to read. “It looks like you investigated your own client? Why?”

  Why do you think?

  “I guess you didn’t trust everything she was telling you . . .”

  Bingo.

  “But she was the one paying—”

  Add an “L” to that word, baby. As it turned out, she was the one playing . . . and she tried to play me.

  “I can’t see how . . .” I yawned again, felt my eyelids beginning to flag, realized I was finally beginning to relax into sleep. “And I don’t see what this has to do with Johnny’s case . . .”

  Close your eyes, sweetheart, you will . . .

  CHAPTER 21

  P.I. School

  The ability to persuade is central to the investigator’s

  dealing with the subject . . . those who would persuade

  must always be prepared to adjust and adapt.

  Therein lies the challenge.

  —Interviewing and Interrogation by Don Rabon

  “OPEN YOUR EYES, honey.”

  I was standing by an open window in a shabby, dark apartment. Three floor below, on the shadowy, rain-slicked street, giant Fords and Packards r
olled by, the vintage vehicles sporting enough metal to qualify as miniature tanks. Rows of tall, brick apartment buildings lined the sidewalk as far as the eye could see and somebody nearby was playing a haunting big band classic on what sounded like a hissing record player.

  “Glenn Miller,” Jack informed me. “ ‘Moonlight Serenade. ’ ”

  Wherever I was, it wasn’t present day, Quindicott, Rhode Island. “Am I dreaming?” I whispered.

  “Yeah, baby.”

  The voice was no longer in my head but behind me. I turned to find Jack Shepard in the flesh. I took in the length of his tall, broad-shouldered form in the familiar double-breasted suit and fedora, that iron jaw with the scar in the shape of a dagger slashing across it. His hard granite-gray eyes softened when my confused green ones met them.

  “Welcome to my world, Penelope.”

  “What am I doing here?”

  “It’s the Stendall case.” He lifted his chin toward the open window. “Look.”

  I turned around to peer out the window again. Across the street was a neighborhood pub that I knew still existed in the East Village of Manhattan. A green wooden sign over its battered wooden double doors read MCSDORLEY’S Old ALE HOUSE. The letters were also etched into one of its big, brightly lit glass windows.

  “They don’t serve dames in there, otherwise I’d get you a cold one.” His eyebrow arched and I knew he was teasing.

  I smiled. “That’s okay, Jack. I’m not much of a drinker anyway, but I still don’t understand why—”

  I was about to revolve from the open window to face him once more when his big, warm hands rested on my shoulders and turned me back. “Keep looking.”

  Moments before the damp street had been devoid of pedestrians, but when I turned toward the window again, I saw one of McSorley’s battered double doors swing wide. A dark-haired young man emerged on a raucous gust of male laughter. He was wearing a kind of doorman’s uniform—black slacks with a green stripe down them. The uniform’s cap was tucked under his arm, but he’d removed the short green jacket, which he carried slung over his shoulder. The white T-shirt underneath defined a muscular chest, visible biceps, and broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist.