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."
"Can't argue there," Jack said.
I studied Vreen, trying to see whether or not he was wearing a gold band on his left hand, but he was too far away. "So what's up with Vreen?" I finally asked, turning back to Jack. "If this is a place for cheating Charles, am I to assume Vreen's a married man?"
"Bingo. Married to Dolores Vreen. They have one young daughter. Live on Long Island."
"How do you know that?" I asked. "Did you know Vreen personally?"
"No," said Jack. "But a little over a year before this night, I did some PI work for his movie studio's property master. The case of the disappearing props, some of them pretty expensive. It was an easy stakeout and an even easier bust—some poor slob of a production assistant swiping it after hours and stashing it in his mother's basement. Nothing to write home about, as far as my case files."
"Well, if you don't know Vreen personally, or didn't—gee, it's tough to know how to make tenses work when you're actually back in the past—"
"Get on with it."
"How do you know Vreen's really cheating with Hedda? They could just be colleagues sharing a business dinner."
Jack's head tilted ever so slightly. "Is that how 'colleagues' act during a 'business' dinner?"
I slowly turned on my stool again, lifted my martini for a sip as I casually glanced in the direction Jack had gestured.
"Goodness . . ." I whispered.
Hedda Geist and Irving Vreen had e
lected to cram themselves into the same side of a leather-cushioned booth. While Vreen was studying the menu, Hedda was practically in his lap, nibbling his weak chin with little kisses.
"Well?" Jack said.
"Well, I guess Vreen's cheating."
"The papers will say so, too. They'll be all over the story in a matter of hours."
"What story, Jack? What did you witness here?"
Just then, I heard loud voices coming from the reception area. Someone was arguing with the maitre d'. Seconds later, a man came barreling into the dining room. He was quite handsome with a jutting, Kirk Douglas jaw, jet-black hair, and bright blue eyes. He was also tall and well-built, his physique closely outlined by a fitted tuxedo.
"Jack? Who is that? He looks familiar, but I can't place—"
"That's Pierce Armstrong," Jack informed me, "another actor at Vreen's studio."
Armstrong charged right up to the booth where Hedda was still cooing over Irving Vreen.
"I knew I'd find you with him!" Armstrong shouted.
The entire restaurant suddenly fell silent. Every face— including mine and Jack's—turned in the direction of Hedda's booth.
"How could you, Hedda?" Armstrong asked. "How could you break up with me and then throw yourself at Irving?! And after all we've been to each other? Why, I ought to slap you silly for this!"
"Don't you come near me, Pierce!" Hedda cried. She grabbed one of the Porterhouse's large steak knives off the table. "Stay back! I'm warning you!"
"Calm down, Pierce," said Irving Vreen. "Let's talk this over."
"Step aside, Vreen," Armstrong loudly warned. "My problem's not with you! It's with Hedda! She's the little tramp who threw me over for you!"
By now, the maitre d' was rushing toward the kitchen doors, where the restaurant's uneasy waiters had gathered. The maitre d' motioned to two of the larger men and began to lead them toward Hedda's table. But it was too late. Armstrong was already lunging toward Hedda.
"Stop!" Irving Vreen demanded, putting himself between the two.
But Pierce Armstrong didn't stop. He tripped instead, knocking Vreen's slight form backward, right into the steak knife that Hedda had been waving.
The scene was a horror show. Vreen's body slumped to the floor, Hedda's steak knife sticking out of its back. Blood gushed from the wound, spraying like a garden hose. Hedda's hands and gown were quickly saturated, and she screamed hysterically. Pierce Armstrong stepped back in complete shock, letting the maitre d' and waiters hustle him away from the booth.
Stunned myself, I turned to Jack. "My God, that's some accident."
"Yeah, baby, if that's what it was . . ."
"What are you saying? That Hedda planned to kill Vreen? Why?"
"I don't know, and I'm sorry to tell you that I was dead myself within a year of this little party. C'mon." Jack's strong grip closed on my upper arm and he pulled me off the bar stool.
"Slow down, Jack! Where are we going now?"
"Didn't you notice? My meal ticket's taking a powder."
Jack was right. As he guided me across the dining room, I saw Nathan Burwell and his barely legal date heading for the exit. So were the other May-December couples. It was practically a stampede!
"What's going on?" I asked.
"What do you think? These cheating Charlies aren't too keen to be interviewed as witnesses. Not with their chippies in tow."
I shook my head. "I can't believe even the DA isn't willing to stick around and give a statement to the police. But I guess the detectives on the case can always use the restaurant's reservations list to track down witnesses."
In response, Jack pointed to the maitre d'. He was now rushing by us with the reservation book under his arm.
"Where's he going with that?" I asked as the man headed for the double doors leading to the kitchen.
Jack shrugged. "Dollars to donuts he's about to add it to the flame-broiled menu."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, doll, that there aren't going to be many on-the-record witnesses to tonight's little 'accident,' because the Porterhouse's book of reservations is about to go up in flames."
Ring-ring! Ring-ring!
"Jack, what's that?" We were moving with the crowd out of the dining room and into the dimly lit reception area. "Did somebody hit the fire alarm?" Ring-ring!
"There's no alarm, baby. What are you talking about?"
"The ringing, Jack! Don't you hear it?"
Ring-ring!
We were in the small reception area now, shoulder to shoulder with the other patrons. There was so little light I could hardly see a thing. Then I couldn't feel Jack anymore. His hand had let go of my arm!
"Jack?"
Ring-ring!
"Jack! Where are you? Don't leave me!"
I peered into the darkness, but I couldn't see him. I couldn't stop, either; the crowd just kept carrying me forward. But I didn't know where I was going. I had to let Jack know where I was. I couldn't do this without him! Squeezing my eyes shut, I cried as loudly as I could—
"Jaack!"
I OPENED MY eyes. Light was streaming in from my bedroom window. It was morning.
Ring-ring!
Ring-ring!
Ring-ring!
Ring-ring!
I sat up, breathing hard, and slapped off my alarm clock.
CHAPTER 4
Death in the Past Tense
I'm in the movie business, darling. I can't afford your acute attacks of integrity.
—The Big Knife, 1955
"HEY, MOM, ANY hopheads or grape cats in that movie you saw last night?"
Okay, there was a time when I would've dropped the buttermilk pancakes on the kitchen floor after hearing those phrases coming out of my son's eleven-year-old mouth. But given my disturbing dream of the night before, it would've taken a lot more than that for Spencer to rattle me.
I calmly set the warm plate in front of him. "So you learned some new vocabulary on the Intrigue Channel."
Spencer snatched the bottle of Vermont maple syrup and began to pour. "How about whistle bait?" he asked brightly. "Any saucy tomatoes?"
"You're a little too young to know about 'whistle bait'—and hopheads for that matter." I tightened the belt of my terrycloth robe. "What were you watching, anyway? An old Mike Hammer episode?"
"Actually, it was a Naked City marathon," said Spencer around his first gooey mouthful of pancakes.
"That old show from the sixties? I didn't know they were running those things."
Spencer nodded. "It was way wicked, Mom. One episode was about a dancing girl who fell down a flight of stairs during a party. Only she didn't 'fall,' you see what I'm getting at?"
"Yes, but you know what I think—" "Somebody pushed her!"
I adjusted my black rectangular glasses. "You know what I think, Spencer?"
"What?"
"There are eight million stories in the Naked City, but you're not old enough to watch any of them yet." Reaching over with a napkin, I wiped a dribble of syrup from his chin. He waved my hand away—a big boy now.
"I got it, Mom."
"I can't believe Bonnie let you stay up to watch that show."
"Bonnie" was Bonnie Franzetti, my son's babysitter, and sister of my late brother's best friend, Eddie Franzetti. The Franzettis owned a successful pizza restaurant on Cranberry Street, but Eddie hadn't followed the family tradition. Instead, he'd become an officer on the Quindicott police force.
"The marathon started at seven," said Spencer. "Anyway, it was no big deal. I usually stay up until ten anyway."
I had the sneaking suspicion Spencer had stayed up later than ten, mostly because it was harder than usual to wake him up this morning—after my own alarm clock had nearly given me a heart attack, that is.
"Enough talk. Finish your pancakes. The coach will be here any minute to pick you up."
"Okey-dokey," Spencer replied, attempting an impression of Edward G. Robinson.
Minutes later, I was shovin
g my bare feet into penny loafers and we were heading downstairs. I grabbed the store keys from behind the counter and let Spencer out to meet Coach Farmer's minivan. Today was Saturday, no school, but there was an all-day baseball clinic for the regional Little League teams, and Spencer was eager to get tips on fielding and batting.
"See you, Mom!"
I waved to the coach and locked the door again. That's when Jack finally made an appearance.
Was that kid trying to sound like Little Caesar? 'Cause he sounded more like Spanky from Our Gang.
"Edward G. Robinson has become one of Spencer's favorite
Intrigue Channel tough guys—second only to Jack Shield. I haven't the heart to tell him his imitation is a little off."
Maybe Spence should wait until he gets a little hair on his lip, or at least until his voice changes—
"Okay! End of conversation."
I glanced at my wristwatch. It was not yet eight, but with two hours remaining before we opened our doors, there was still plenty to do. I went back upstairs to shower and dress. After blowing out my shoulder-length auburn hair, I buttoned on a simple cream-colored blouse, stepped into pressed black slacks, and returned to the shop to open the register and boot up our computer system.
For years, my aunt Sadie had run the Quindicott shop just as her late father had—that is to say, she received book deliveries and placed them on the shelves for loyal customers to wander in and purchase at their leisure. But as the store's loyal customer base gradually died off and the town fell on hard times, Sadie prepared to pack it in, too. That's when I offered an alternative, along with much of the check from my late husband's life insurance policy.
With the ready cash, we remodeled the dusty old shop, overhauled the inventory, opened the Community Events space in the adjoining storefront, and launched a marketing campaign and Internet site. Sadie had always been New England practical, so she'd been tense about spending the money, especially when it came to mortgaging her original store to expand our space for special events. But now our business was going gangbusters. And this weekend was shaping up to be an especially profitable one for us.
I was just starting to tidy up the front display tables when Aunt Sadie finally made an appearance. She looked lovely this morning in tweedy brown slacks and a forest-green boatneck sweater, which nicely set off her short, newly colored auburn hair.
The Ghost and the Femme Fatale - Haunted Bookshop 04 Page 5
