Dr. Lilly gestured to the screen behind her where a slide show of old movie posters was being projected. "The release of these movies in a concentrated time period caused a sensation. The French critics immediately recognized that a new style of film had begun to be made before and during the war. These were darker-themed pictures that dealt with crime, detectives, and middle-class murder. The films were sometimes based on, or similar to, the novels of Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and James M. Cain-novels that the French already had labeled serie noire or 'black series.' "
I knew all of this already, but I listened patiently.
"As part of that movement," Dr. Lilly continued, "Wrong Turn was produced in the late 1940s by Irving Vreen's Gotham Features-a Poverty Row studio, operating out of Queens, New York. The film's leading lady, Sybil Sand, played by Hedda Geist, shows us one of the genre's most powerful archetypes, the femme fatale. Tonight, in Sybil, you've seen the same kind of 'sexy but dangerous woman' that you'll also be seeing in other films scheduled this weekend."
"Hear that Jack?" I silently whispered, still wondering if the ghost was with me. "You're not the only one who remembers your filmmaking friends in Queens." I waited for Jack to reply.
"Jack?"
The ghost still wasn't answering me, and I wondered if maybe he couldn't. I grabbed my purse off the seat's armrest, shoved my hand inside, and searched the tiny soft pocket sewn into the lining. The moment I felt the hard, smooth coin, I breathed a sigh of relief. Jack's nickel was there. I hadn't lost it.
What's the matter, baby? Miss me that much?
When the ghost first started haunting me, he couldn't seem to travel beyond the four walls of my bookshop. Then I got hold of his case files and found an old buffalo nickel inside one of the dusty folders. Jack had carried that nickel around with him in life. And, now, whenever I carried it with me, he seemed to be able to travel in death.
"Jack." I swallowed my nerves. "I thought I'd lost the nickel. Why didn't you answer me?"
Dames, he said in a disgusted tone. Didn't you tell me to button my gabber?
"Yes, but… I changed my mind. I mean, the movie's over. So it's okay if you want to talk."
The broad on stage is that boring, huh?
"It's not that she's boring. It's just that I already know what she's telling me. There are dozens of books in my store that say as much."
Okay, baby, I've got an idea. Let's blow this joint.
"What?"
I keep telling you, sweetheart, I can take you out on the town, if you let me. How about it? Dinner at the Copa? A room at the Plaza, just you and me…
I felt a thin, cool column of air swirl around me, tickle the back of my neck, brush past my cheek.
"Stop it, Jack," I whispered. "You're being silly now."
Am I? When you thought I'd beat it, you couldn't reach for that nickel fast enough.
"I was simply worried about purse snatchers." I folded my arms and rubbed them, trying to ward off Jack's little chill. "I hear it happens in movie theaters, you know? And there's a lot of people here tonight from out of town."
The exasperating sound of decidedly smug male laughter rolled through my head as Dr. Lilly continued her lecture. Now she was explaining exactly why those noirs shot by Gotham Features studio were such a hit.
"While there were many films being produced at that time on the East and West coasts, the cluster produced by Gotham had made a small fortune because they had something the others didn't: the blonde bombshell Hedda Geist."
Dr. Lilly lifted her arm and gave a little wave toward the projectionist's booth. Suddenly, a new slide appeared on the screen, the 1948 movie poster for Wrong Turn, which featured the arresting image of Hedda Geist's beautiful face and form. Her hourglass figure was draped in the same shimmering, silver gown that she'd worn in the first scene of the picture, only it wasn't yet torn. And her big green eyes appeared wide, startled, and a little bit desperate.
Dr. Lilly fixed a smile on a section of college kids in the audience-the group was mostly young and mostly male, many of them wearing fraternity jackets.
"So what was it about this type of story and theme that appealed to audiences back in the 1940s and '50s, and continues to appeal to twenty-first-century film enthusiasts today?"
"Sex appeal," one of the young men shouted.
"Hedda's killer body," yelled another.
"Sadomasochism!" someone else called out, and the audience fell apart.
"Maybe a bit of that," Dr. Lilly said with a raised eyebrow. "But the truth is much simpler. The most subversive noir films-Touch of Evil, Pickup on South Street, This Gun for Hire-depict a world that is so morally bankrupt that it's lost its way. Good languishes and evil dominates, the bad guy has money and power and status and the good guys are lowlifes, social pariahs who live on the raw edge of society."
If that's what this broad thinks, she hasn't lived on the "raw edge of society" much. Someone should inform her there's not a helluva lot of "good guys" there.
"She's speaking relatively, Jack," I told the ghost. "You lived on the edge, and you weren't a bad guy Were you?"
No comment.
"Although the film movement began in the forties, filmmakers who came after, in the sixties and seventies, embraced its tenets. Movies like Taxi Driver and Chinatown may not have used the same stark, black-and-white palette of the early noir entries, but their cynical narratives were most definitely steeped in the same kettle. By the way, you'll also find the poster of Wrong Turn on the cover of my brand-new book, Murdered in Plain Sight."
Dr. Lilly paused a moment. "While I've given overviews of noir in my past publications, this new book of mine is much more specific-and I believe it will be of great interest to all of you, as well as your local media. It's the first book ever to delve into the details of Hedda Geist's personal life and career."
Dr. Lilly frowned. "I must apologize for the mistake that prevented the publisher from getting my hardcover copies here in time for me to sign for you tonight in the lobby, as the festival's event planners wished-an unfortunate postal delay, I'm told."
In the next seat, Brainert turned to me and whispered, "You're kidding. That's very disappointing. We were all expecting a signing to take place in the lobby."
"I know," I said with a sigh. "Dr. Lilly made it very clear that she was handling the delivery of her new release, but Buy the Book never received a thing. We've already rescheduled her
signing."
Brainert spun around to glare at Seymour in the row behind us. "What do you know about a postal delay?"
Seymour raised his hands. "Don't look at me, Parker. I only lose deliveries when somebody pisses me off, and I never even met that woman!"
"Shhh!" someone hissed.
On stage, Dr. Lilly continued: "I spoke to the people at San Fernando University Press, and they promised me that another shipment of my new book will arrive by private service tomorrow morning. The stock will be available at the Buy the Book store, where I'll be signing at twelve noon sharp!"
Applause greeted the news. Dr. Lilly smiled, and then she glanced over her shoulder at the poster featuring Hedda Geist.
"Ms. Geist, now Mrs. Geist-Middleton, has lived such a quiet life for the last two decades, few people were even aware that she was still alive. But she is! And she's here this weekend, as you all know, if you've reviewed your program schedule. She'll be on this very stage tomorrow, doing a Q &A session with Barry Yello. She might even be here in the audience tonight. Ms. Geist-Middleton, are you here? If you are, I'd love you to stand up and take a brief bow "
Like everyone else, I twisted around in my theater seat, scanning the crowd, dying with curiosity to see what the famous femme fatale looked like sixty years after Wrong Turn.
In the very back row of the house, an attractive young blonde rose from her velvet-lined seat. She stood and began to clap. Then people around her began to clap. The clapping grew louder, moving down the theater, row after row, until finally I saw
what they were clapping about.
Hedda Geist-Middleton had stood up-but she did much more than simply take a "brief bow" as Dr. Lilly suggested. The elderly woman moved into the center aisle and began to stroll down the deep blue carpet. She walked with sure footing, her head regally high, on a slender but sturdy frame. She wore a gorgeously tailored white pantsuit dripping with silver embroidery. Large diamond earrings sparkled beneath white hair, which was pulled into a smooth French twist and held in place by a diamond-studded comb.
Applause followed the woman, thundering down from the back of the theater. The woman blew kisses at members of the audience, who began to rise from their seats for a standing ovation.
Once a diva, always a diva, Jack quipped.
"Is that really her?" I silently wondered.
Time's a witch, ain't she? Jack replied.
"You're not giving her much credit, Jack. For an eighty-five-year-old woman, she looks pretty darn good to me."
Though sixty years had passed since her stardom, I still recognized the same radiant beauty that lit up the screen in a half-dozen dark-crime dramas. Despite the wrinkles and age spots, Hedda Geist still possessed those incredibly high cheekbones and famous catlike eyes that had made her a star.
I'll give the old broad this: She managed to stay out of the skull orchard a whole lot longer than yours truly.
On stage, Dr. Lilly squinted against the spotlight, shading her eyes as she peered into the theater's aisle. "Is that her? Oh, yes. There she is, ladies and gentleman, Mrs. Hedda Geist-Middleton!"
Next to me, Brainert was having a fit. "She came! Oh, my goodness!" He sprang from his seat and rushed up the aisle to greet the woman. "Ms. Geist-Middleton! I'm honored. We all are! Please, won't you come on stage and say a few words?"
"That was my intention, Mr. Parker," the former actress imperially replied.
"Why didn't you sit in our reserved section?" Brainert asked.
She waved her hand. "I didn't need to sit through Wrong Turn again. My goodness, I've seen it enough times, you know. I just popped in at the end."
"Allow me." Brainert offered his arm. She took it, and they moved down the aisle toward the stage.
The young woman who began the applause followed them. When she moved past my row, I froze in surprise. The woman's hair was styled differently than the Hedda of the 1940s-it was shorter and cut in layers-but otherwise she was the spitting image of the young Hedda Geist, with a stunning, hourglass figure, big green, catlike eyes and finely sculptured features. Even Jack was affected, and given his state, understandably confused.
Wait a second, he said in my head. Which one's Hedda?
"You're in the twenty-first-century now," I silently reminded the ghost. "Hedda was in her twenties when she made Wrong Turn. Now she's well over eighty. This young woman is obviously a relative, probably a granddaughter."
To sustained applause, Brainert led the elegant woman up the short flight of stairs and onto the stage. The young blonde followed, eliciting some whistles of her own from the male contingent.
Brainert and the blonde moved to the side of the stage as Hedda stepped up to the standing microphone. A smiling Dr. Lilly greeted the living legend, and the pair shook hands. Camera phones were held aloft to capture the moment.
Dr. Lilly stepped back and Hedda began to speak.
"Thank you all for such a warm welcome! I am ever so grateful for this opportunity to come forward again and greet my fans. You know, my screen career ended long ago. But this festival is truly a gift to me, showing my films, making me a star again." She smiled. "Or at least feel like a star again…"
The crowd laughed and applauded.
"Indeed, tonight truly is like yesteryear. You've made it all come back to me-"
An intense flash suddenly illuminated the stage. The silent burst of light was followed by a shower of sparks that rained down around the standing mike, where Hedda was speaking.
Another flash came from above, and the startled elderly woman looked up.
"Oh, my god!" someone cried from the first row.
"The speaker!"
"Look out!"
Screams came from all over the theater as the massive black audio speaker dropped from above, trailing sparking wires.
Brainert lunged for Hedda and pulled her away. The object struck the heavy microphone stand, smashing the metal flat. More screams filled the theater as the speaker bounced across the stage, then came apart. People in the front row leaped up as the debris scattered.
"Oh, my God, Jack," I silently cried. "That speaker could have hurt Hedda!"
You mean killed, don't you? Look at that steel microphone stand, baby. It's smashed beyond recognition.
Now I was on my feet along with everyone else, and another figure dashed onto the stage-Bud Napp. As sparks continued to flutter down like sizzling snow, Bud raised his arms and signaled for calm. "All right, people, settle down now," he declared in the same tone he used when presiding over our Quindicott Business Owners Association meetings. "No one was hurt, and there's no cause for alarm!"
"What happened?" someone cried.
"Looks like our public address speaker fell, that's all," Bud continued. "There's no danger to anyone, so don't panic. But as you can tell from my shouting, we lost our audio system…"
Behind Bud, the young, blonde Hedda lookalike darted across the stage to put an arm around the elder Hedda. Appearing shaken, the actress quickly recovered, and the young woman led her off stage.
Brainert stepped forward, careful to avoid the sparking wires, as he loudly addressed the crowd. "I'm sure Dr. Lilly will be happy to finish her lecture tomorrow morning, at the Buy the Book store on Cranberry Street."
Dr. Lilly nodded. "I'm sure to have my new book delivered by then!" she shouted. "I hope to see you all there!"
"And we'll hear from the great Hedda Geist-Middleton later this weekend, too!" Brainert added, forcing a stiff grin across his still chalk-white face. "Meanwhile, I have an idea. Let's forget about this little mishap and proceed to the lawn party at the Finch Inn!"
Spotty applause followed, and then the crowd began to buzz with excitement as it moved up the aisles. The electric reaction didn't surprise me. Witnessing a shocking accident was a gossip gold mine in this little town. Not only had these folks scored a story to tell for weeks to come, they could start rehashing it right now at a party with food and drink.
I remained in my seat, waiting for the mob to disperse. Then I approached the stage, one eye on the shattered speaker and the hot, sparking wires still flashing overhead.
That Hedda Geist… Jack remarked.
"What about her?"
She's one accident-prone dame.
"What do you mean by that?" I demanded.
But the ghost didn't answer.
"Jack? Are you there?"
He wasn't. For whatever his reason this time, the ghost of Jack Shepard had once again faded to black.
CHAPTER 3. Night Trips
The work of the police, like that of a woman, is never done.
– He Walked by Night, 1948
I DIDN'T GO to the party on the Finch Inn lawn. Even though it was a Friday night, Spencer's sixteen-year-old babysitter had a midnight curfew. Normally, my aunt Sadie would have stayed home with Spence, but being in her seventies hadn't precluded accepting a hot date for the party with widower Bud Napp. I, on the other hand, was young, dateless, and had to get home.
After letting Spencer's sitter out the bookstore's front door, I relocked the shop, climbed the stairs to our three-bedroom apartment, and checked on my sleeping son.
Spencer was in dreamland on his narrow bed, his breathing deep and even; his orange-striped cat, Bookmark, curled up at his feet. He was eleven now, and, not for the first time, I noticed his growing resemblance to my late older brother: the thick, auburn hair with the stubborn cowlick, the long-lashed eyes, and light dusting of freckles. I had those features, too, but unlike my brother, who'd been a real lady's man, I'd never
been anything close to a magnet for the opposite sex.
Thank goodness Spencer's too young for all that, I thought. But I knew it wouldn't be much longer before he started calling girls, or they started calling him. That was the sort of "problem" I'd be happy to deal with compared to what we'd already gone through.
A few years ago, after his father's suicide, Spencer had become increasingly withdrawn-not unlike Calvin's own behavior before he'd stepped out the bedroom window of our high-rise apartment.
After Calvin's funeral, my son seemed convinced that I was going to leave him next, so he didn't want to leave me-didn't want to go to school or summer camp, was reluctant even to step out of the apartment. Then nightmares plagued him; his fears increased, his grades fell, and the therapist my wealthy in-laws had hired for him was unable to help.
That's when the McClures began to pressure me. Spencer needed to "get away," they said. Their solution was boarding school. Mine was a whole lot different. I moved us up to my little hometown of Quindicott, Rhode Island.
It had been difficult at first. Calvin's mother and sister had hit the roof-fashionable, upscale Newport was the place to live in Rhode Island, not my dinky little hometown. They hadn't understood my decision, and Spencer had been angry that I'd forced him to leave New York, abandon everything familiar.
Instead of his exclusive private academy, Spencer was now attending public school. His new bedroom was half the size of his old one, the posh view of skyscrapers exchanged for a single old tree. His sleekly modern private bath was now a shared restroom with a claw-footed tub and a chipped sink.
The Ghost and the Femme Fatale Page 3
