"Hey, you can learn a lot from reading that stuff. Archaeologists search for Roman graffiti just to get a feel for what the common people were thinking."
"But that's history-"
"Yeah, and I learned the romantic history of Quindicott High School from that old tower, before Fiona defaced it. By the way, do you happen to know anything about a girl named Brenda? She'd probably be in her midtwenties by now, and-" Seymour stopped in his tracks. His slightly bulging eyes bulged a little wider.
I followed his gaze to the front of Mr. Koh's grocery store, where a beautiful young blonde was selecting fresh fruit from the store's wooden bins. I recognized her immediately.
"That girl," I whispered, "she was with Hedda Geist last night. Do you know who she is?"
"Her name's Harmony Middleton," Seymour informed me. "She's Hedda's granddaughter."
The girl wore a hot pink tank top over white, very short shorts, and a young man in jeans and a rock band T-shirt was obviously flirting with her. I recognized the shaggy dark hair and the shamrock forearm tattoo. It was Dixon Gallagher, one of Bud Napp's part-time employees at the hardware store, and I wondered if Bud had used him on the final fix-it work he'd done for Brainert's theater.
A roaring engine suddenly shattered the quiet on Cranberry. I turned to see a black-and-chrome motorcycle pulling up to the Koh's fruit stand. The rider was a big guy, wearing blue jeans and a black leather jacket. Without pulling off his ebony helmet, or lifting its tinted visor, he grabbed a drink from the outdoor refrigerator. Then he turned to observe Harmony and sauntered over to her. He finally pulled off his helmet. but I couldn't see the blond man's face. I could tell he was making some kind of joke, purposefully finding a way to join the conversation. Harmony laughed and smiled at him, pushing his beefy arm playfully while Dixon smirked and folded his own tattooed arms tightly.
Seymour shook his head. "Like moths to flame."
"Excuse me?"
"That same little scene got played at least ten times at last night's lawn party-except with different players." "What do you mean exactly?"
I'll tell you what the postman's saying, Jack piped up in my head. Harmony just might be a chippy off the old block. "Excuse me?"
She wears skirts that defy gravity. She buys underwear with loose elastic. In other words, she's a real-
"Okay, okay!" I told the ghost. "I get it!"
"That girl not only resembles her granny," Seymour said, "she attracts male admirers the way Hedda did back in the day. And let me tell you, the wolf pack was circling Harmony for hours-much to Hedda's chagrin."
"Oh, really? Hedda didn't like it?"
"As soon as Harmony started flirting with the young men at the party, Hedda had some trivial reason to call the girl over and order her around. It seemed pretty obvious she didn't like sharing the spotlight."
Seymour struck a diva pose and assumed a falsetto. "Get me another punch, dear! I don't care for this ballpoint they gave me; find me the one I brought to sign autographs! I need my wrap from the car!"
Seymour lowered his voice. "I'll give the girl this: She never back-talked her grandmother. Just scampered around and did the woman's bidding. Me? I would have told the old bag to go jump in the duck pond."
"Maybe Harmony simply respects and admires her grand-mother. And Hedda's probably used to speaking to Harmony like a child-"
"More like an employee," Seymour said. "Which would be more accurate, because Brainert told me that Harmony isn't just a relative, she works full-time as Hedda's assistant. And, boy, does Hedda work it!"
Now the mail carrier's got me wondering…
"What Jack?"
When Grandma Hedda's finally six feet under, what sort of inheritance will Little Miss Harmony get?
"You're saying you suspect her of something?"
I suspect everyone of something, baby. The little miss I suspect of having a motive to off her grandmother. Last night's "accident" with the falling speaker almost flattened Hedda Geist-a dame who treats this girl like a servant, which must chafe, even if the girl doesn't let on. And didn't you just notice Harmony talking to one of Bud's employees?
"Yes, but there's no way Bud Napp could be involved with a murder plot. Not Bud."
Maybe not your auntie's boyfriend, but how well do you know the kid working for him?
"I don't know Dixon at all, except to see him behind the counter at Bud's store."
Well, Harmony seems pretty chummy with him.
"Or it's simply an innocent flirtation-like the big, blond guy who drove up on the black motorcycle."
Either way, I'd say the girl had a motive, and her little friend had the opportunity.
"To do what, Jack?"
To rig that speaker to fall smack on the old diva's noggin, that's what! Pay attention, doll!
"I am paying attention, but nobody's saying that speaker was rigged to fall. We'd need evidence for that."
So go get it. Talk to your aunt Sadie's Buddy boy about it, if you trust him that much. Napp will give you the scoop whether something was hinky.
"Hey, look at that!" Seymour interrupted (not that he knew he was interrupting). He was pointing out a poster on the next block. "C'mon, Pen, let's get a move on. I want a look at that poster."
We strode quickly up the block and Seymour rushed toward a poster that someone had just put up. It advertised the screening of an old Gotham Features movie, Mike O'Bannon of the Sea Witch.
"Sweet!" Seymour said. "I'm a big fan of the Fisherman Detective! What about you, Pen?"
My brow wrinkled. "The what detective?"
"It's a series of movies from the forties, starring stunt-man-turned-actor Pierce Armstrong. He plays a private detective who's also a fisherman."
Fisherman detective? Jack snorted. The gumshoes I knew only had one thing in common with fish-they drank like them.
"Rumor has it Pierce Armstrong's going to be one of the surprise special guests this weekend," Seymour said excitedly. "At least, according to Barry Yello's Web site this morning-"
"Armstrong?!" I couldn't believe it. "Pierce Armstrong is still alive? And he's coming here… to Quindicott?"
Quick, baby, ask Dizzy Dean what he remembers about Act Two of the guy's life.
"Yes, of course!" I turned to Seymour. "Wasn't Pierce Armstrong mixed up in the death of Irving Vreen, the owner of Gotham Studios?"
"Brother, is that an understatement!" Seymour declared. "Tell me what you know."
"He stood trial for manslaughter, and they sent him to prison for five years."
Lucky he didn't get a dime, Jack said. Judges and the public liked red meat back in the day…
"I'm sure the district attorney would have stuck him for murder instead of manslaughter," Seymour went on, "but there was a glitch. Vreen died from a stab wound, but Armstrong didn't actually stab him. I don't know a lot of the specifics-"
"It was Hedda," I blurted out. "Armstrong tripped and fell in a restaurant. He knocked Vreen onto a large steak knife, which Hedda was holding."
Seymour looked at me, puzzled. "How do you know that? I mean, it isn't exactly in the mainstream. The only reason I know about Pierce Armstrong going to prison is because of a bio attached to his filmography in Films of the Forties. That's the only thing in print about the man, as far as I know, and it's been out of print for thirty years."
"Oh… er… someone told me last night-at the theater."
"Well, Armstrong did hard time in Ossining -you might know it better as Sing Sing. And by the time he got out, his star turn was over."
Tell your mailman pal to keep wagging his tongue, Jack urged. He's giving us good gravy.
"So what did Armstrong do?" I asked Seymour. "After he got sprung from Sing Sing."
"Well, people on the East Coast wouldn't hire him, since they still remembered the Vreen murder and held it against him. So Armstrong went back to Hollywood, where he still had friends in the stunt profession. They helped him get back his old career as a stuntman in cowboy pictures.
If you know what to look for, you'll see him taking punches or bullets in just about every classic Western, from John Ford's The Searchers to The Gene Autrey Show"
"What about Hedda?" I asked.
Seymour shrugged. "She was never charged with anything, as far as I know. In fact, I'm pretty sure she testified against Armstrong at his trial."
I frowned. That didn't seem right at all. "But she was holding the knife."
Seymour shrugged. "If you're implying that Armstrong was railroaded, I won't argue. He's always been one of my favorite B-movie guys, so I'd be the first one to give him the benefit of the doubt. And Hedda paid another way. With Vreen dead, Gotham Features collapsed and her career was over."
"Did you hear that, Jack?" I silently asked.
I heard, baby. If Hedda set up Vreen for murder, then she simultaneously set up her own career for sudden death.
"Then what possible motive could she have had to kill Vreen?" I quietly wondered. "It must have been a tragic accident…"
"Yeah," Seymour went on, "today's Tramp Pack of starlets and pop divas may thrive on bad-girl publicity, but back then, scandal was heavy baggage. Hedda's ex-boyfriend had been sent to prison for the death of her married lover. It was obviously too much for the public to accept because no studio would touch Hedda after that. But I guess she made out okay, anyway."
"How do you mean?"
"I chatted with Brainert's soda pop academic pal last night-you remember, Dr. Pepper? He told me Hedda lived the life of Riley after her movie career was over. She married Lincoln Middleton, a television executive. When he died, she inherited a ton of money, along with his family's horse farm in Newport." Seymour snorted. "Nice life, if you can steal
it… "
CHAPTER 5. An Explosive Notion
Thanks for the ride, the three cigarettes, and for not laughing at my theories on life.
– The Postman Always Rings Twice, 1946
THE MAILMAN AND I arrived at the Cooper Family Bakery to find it mobbed. Dr. Lilly hadn't been exaggerating-the line of customers ran down the block. Some were locals, but most appeared to be festival attendees.
"Look, Pen!" Seymour elbowed me. "A friend of ours is almost up to the counter. C'mon!"
Seymour was fine with cutting the line. Me? I wasn't so comfortable with the dirty looks we were getting until I saw who the "friend of ours" was: Bud Napp.
This is your chance, baby. Wait till Buddy boy's all sweetened up with pastries, then grill him!
"Check!" I told Jack. But Seymour beat me to the lanky hardware store owner.
"Hey, Thor, where's your mighty hammer?"
It was Seymour 's favorite joke with Bud, who used a ball peen hammer to maintain control over the Quindicott Business Owners Association meetings. Bud used to have a real judge's gavel, until someone lifted it. Now he carried his "good-as-a gavel" to and from our meetings on his tool belt.
"Hi, Bud!" I said brightly, hoping to make up for Seymour 's jibe.
"Hello, Pen," Bud said, touching the brim of his Napp
Hardware baseball cap. Then he frowned at Seymour. "Cut the crap, Tarnish. I'm not in the mood."
Seymour 's eyes bulged. "My, we're testy today. What's eating you?"
Bud was silent as he eyed the people around us. "Nothing I care to talk about."
Noting Bud's surly mood, I quickly changed the subject by explaining my plight. Bud immediately offered to help me transport the coffee and pastries back to the bookshop in his hardware store van.
Ten minutes later, he'd downed two doughnuts and a large coffee, then rolled the truck up to the front of the bakery and unlocked the rear double doors. The crowd parted as Seymour and I loaded up the goodies. The three of us wedged ourselves into the front seat of the van. With my elbow jammed into Bud's overalls, we were off.
During the short drive down Cranberry Street, Jack reminded me to get going with the grilling, and I cleared my throat.
"So, Bud, what did you think about that accident last night at the theater?"
Bud cursed and shook his head. "I won't take the fall for that one. No way," he declared.
"Who's blaming you?" I asked.
"Who isn't? Your pal the Brainiac for starters." Bud's calloused fingers squeezed the steering wheel. "That's the thanks I get for stepping in at the last second when that fancy restoration firm in Newport couldn't be bothered with final fixes."
A bicyclist swerved into Bud's path. He hit the van's brakes and horn. The van lurched, throwing me and Seymour forward and back.
"Woah, Speed Racer, chill!" Seymour cried.
"I've got a good crew. The best!" Bud continued, ignoring Seymour. "Not a bunch of bums hired off the street. My guys know what they're doing!"
"Including Dixon Gallagher?" I asked.
Bud frowned. "I know Dixon looks too young to be skilled, but believe me, he is. He's been working for me part-time for more than ten years. I taught him some, but he already knew plenty because his dad's a master electrician. When that boy finally gets over his rock-star fantasies and quits his garage band, you can bet he'll quit me, too, and start earning serious money in the union."
"So Dixon hung the speaker?"
"No, Pen. I hung that speaker myself, and I know the job was done right."
I watched that cyclist in front of us pedal casually off to the side of the street, as if he hadn't almost been run over. Festival attendees took advantage of Bud's situation and jaywalked in front of his van. Bud cursed and honked again.
"What did Chief Ciders say?" I asked.
"That moron with a badge? He claims crossed electrical wires sparked a fire, which damaged the support rack and caused the speaker to drop onto the stage." Bud slammed the steering wheel. "That dog don't hunt, I tell you! I've been saying we need a real fire marshal in this town, not a bunch of know-nothing volunteers who see two wires within fifty feet of one another and immediately cry 'electrical fire.' "
The street cleared and Bud pushed the pedal to the metal. I was forced back into my seat again as we raced the final few blocks. Then the van screeched to a halt in front of Buy the Book. Seymour immediately popped the door and hopped out.
I stayed. "Tell me more."
"There was no fire and no fire damage, Pen," Bud asserted. "The ceiling wasn't even scorched, and the fire alarm and sprinkler system never went off."
"What do you think happened?"
"The speaker was hung from the ceiling on a metal brace. One of the struts actually broke. Truth is, Penelope, I think a small explosive was used."
"What?!"
"I know it sounds crazy. But I also know construction materials. A short, electrical fire could not have generated enough heat to snap steel. A long fire might, but a fire of any duration would have left evidence. Smoke, scorching-and we'd have heard the fire alarms go off." A shadow crossed Bud's face. "I'm positive there was an explosion."
"How could someone plant a bomb up there? On the ceiling?"
"Easy. There's a ladder in the wings. It goes right up to a catwalk, which runs along the ceiling above the stage. The speaker mount was within easy reach of anyone standing on that catwalk."
"But if it's vandalism, who did it? And why?"
Bud couldn't answer that one, but I was sure someone else had some theories.
"Jack? Are you hearing this?" I quietly asked the ghost.
Yeah, baby. If someone blew the speaker to kill Hedda, they almost succeeded. It could have been little Harmony who'd arranged it. She was probably the only one who knew her granny was going to make a last-minute appearance.
"You're right, Jack, but if the explosion had a remote device, it could have been triggered by anyone in the audience that night. You heard Seymour -he said Pierce Armstrong might be showing up at the festival. What if he's here already? Hedda testified against him at his trial. What if he was in the audience last night and rigged the speaker to kill Hedda in some kind of long- overdue revenge scheme?"
Good call, baby. After all, old Hedd
a's been out of the spotlight for decades. Your pal Dr. Lilly said few people even knew she was still alive. It's darn coincidental that the first night she steps into the public light again, bam!
"Hey!" Seymour cried from the sidewalk. "Are we gonna unload here or what?"
I climbed down out of the van, then turned and leaned through the open window. "We'll talk about this later, Bud."
Bud nodded, then left the cab and unlocked the rear doors. Despite the bumpy ride, everything looked fine. Seymour carried the thermal containers to the front door of the bookshop and set them down on the sidewalk. Rather than fumbling in my purse for the keys, I rang the bell. Sadie would show Seymour where to put the coffee when she came to the door. Meanwhile, I went back to retrieve the neat stack of boxed donuts from the back of Bud's van.
Before I could grab the goodies, Bud jerked his head in the direction of the street. "Here comes trouble," he warned.
I peered around the van's rear door-and my heart sunk.
It was Councilwoman Marjorie Binder-Smith. She'd recently abandoned her wannabe-Hillary hairstyle for a "Nancy Pelosi look" (according to Colleen at the beauty shop). Her formerly short, blonde hair had been dyed chestnut brown and grown to her shoulders; her ubiquitous pantsuits were gone, replaced with calf-length skirts and sweater sets.
A uniform of dark blue followed the woman as she charged across Cranberry Street, her hair rigid in the spring breeze. The Quindicott police officer had his hat pulled low, his gait was much slower than Marjorie's, his broad shoulders slumped.
Abandoning the donuts, I moved to defuse what looked like a ticking bomb. "Good morning, Councilwoman," I said brightly. "You're looking senatorial today or should I say Madame Speaker-ish?"
The councilwoman ignored my greeting, swung around to face the cop. Only then did I realize the policeman was my friend Eddie Franzetti.
"Look at the condition of this sidewalk," the councilwoman told Officer Eddie with theatrical outrage. "There's garbage everywhere. It's just a disgrace, and a clear violation of the town's sanitation ordinances. I want you to issue a littering ticket to this business, right now."
The Ghost and the Femme Fatale Page 6
