"Oh, yeah, that's right!" said Seymour. "Lilly even apologized to the crowd for the mistake." He shook his head. "Blame the mailman! That's sooo typical."
"This must mean something," I murmured.
"But what?" asked Seymour.
"Seems obvious to me," said Fiona, overhearing us. "Dr. Lilly didn't want anyone reading her book until today."
"Yeah, but why?" asked Seymour. "What's the big deal?"
"I've read a lot of true crime and stories of investigative journalism in my time," Fiona said. "Believe me, there are plenty of books out there that can set off explosions."
I frowned at Fiona's choice of words, but in my head Jack became excited.
Your Bird Lady's onto something, baby. When you get back to your shop, you better break open those boxes of Lilly's books in your store room, and take a good, hard look at what the dead woman wrote in those pages.
"Perhaps the book Dr. Lilly just published is going to expose something or break some sort of news," Fiona went on. "In that case, she might have wanted to control where and when it was released. What's the book's title, Penelope?"
"Murdered in Plain Sight"
"My goodness," Fiona said, "that does sound incendiary! Do you know anything about its subject?"
"I assumed it was going to be another film noir study. That's what she's known for…" I blinked just then, remembering the reporters showing up at my store.
"Pen? What is it?" Seymour asked.
"There are hundreds of film studies on the shelves already," I said. "Those reporters showed up today for something more."
"Reporters?" said Fiona, stepping closer.
I nodded. "They came to the store to cover Dr. Lilly's lecture. When they saw she wasn't there, they turned around and left."
"What do you think her book's about?" Fiona asked.
"Hey, wait a minute," said Seymour, snapping his fingers. "Last night, didn't Dr. Lilly say something about her book covering the details of Hedda Geist's life and career like never before?"
I tensed. "Yes, that's right… she did."
Seymour scratched his head. "You think maybe she was going to expose something about Hedda's involvement with the Pierce Armstrong trial?"
"A trial?" Fiona said. "You must tell me more. What's that all about?"
As Seymour told Fiona about Irving Vreen's untimely death at the point of a steak knife sixty years before, I continued searching Dr. Lilly's bedroom. Unfortunately, I turned up nothing more. Seymour and I canvassed the living room next; and, in the middle of our search, Fiona called us into the second bedroom.
She pointed to a round table. A heavy porcelain vase had been slid to the side to make room for something but there was hardly anything there: just some small cassette cases and several pens scattered about. There was no laptop computer, no notepad or notebooks, and no tape recorder with which to play the audiotapes.
"She must have been using this desk for a workspace," Fiona said.
I picked up one of the cassette cases and discovered it was empty. I moved to the next one, and the one after that. All five cassette cases were empty!
"Either the tapes are somewhere else in this cottage or they've been stolen," I said.
Fiona and Seymour quickly tossed the room but came up empty.
I looked for a tape recorder, but that appeared stolen, too.
Anyone with peepers can see the dead dame was scribbling something, Jack said. Maybe that's the something that got her iced.
I looked around. "Fiona, you said that you saw Dr. Lilly writing in notebooks, listening to tape recordings, and typing on a laptop. None of those things are here. So if there was a working manuscript among all that, it's missing, too."
Along with the jewelry, Jack noted. But I'm betting that was just a con to make it look like your average smash-and-grab burglary.
Fiona stepped up to me. "Try to remember, Penelope. Did
Dr. Lilly bring any of those things with her to your store this morning?"
I closed my eyes, tried to conjure every detail. "Dr. Lilly arrived at Buy the Book on foot, with a small clutch purse and nothing else."
"I don't get it," said Seymour. "What value could an unfinished manuscript have?"
Fiona threw up her hands. "If it's an expose, it could have plenty of value, even unfinished!"
"I've got to read Murdered in Plain Sight as soon as possible," I said. "It might have clues to whatever you saw her working on. I'd better try to get in touch with Brainert, too. And if he doesn't know anything, he might have contacts at Dr. Lilly's home or at her university. Someone must know more."
"That seems very logical to me," Fiona said, "and I know you have to get going. But do take a quick look at the top of the lighthouse before you leave. I doubt there are any clues up there, but it may be your last chance in a long while to see the view. We're booked solid for months. I've even got people on a waiting list to take over Dr. Lilly's remaining reservation time, now that she's… well, now that she's gone."
I headed for the spiral staircase. Behind me, Fiona compulsively straightened up the pillows on the couch while Seymour studied the nautical paintings on the walls.
"Hey, Fiona, I actually like these. They remind me of the Hornblower series. Any of them for sale?"
Fiona exhaled with obvious annoyance. "It took me months to find exactly the right local artwork for this room. Why in the world would I want to sell it to you?"
"Name your price for the set."
"All right, one million dollars."
"Sounds fair for a set of paintings rendered by a nobody. So I'll tell you what, how about I write an IOU?"
"An IOU from Seymour Tarnish! That's rich. Why don't you just lose the check and tell me it's in the mail?"
Their voices grew fainter as I moved up the spiral staircase, one hand on the iron railing. At the top of the tower, I found a cozy space with wicker chairs and a matching table. The glass chamber was warm and stuffy, but I popped one of the windows and the stiff sea breeze quickly cooled things down. I looked around but found nothing. If Dr. Lilly spent time up here, she hadn't left anything behind.
My elbow bumped something-an antique brass telescope on a swivel base. For the heck of it, I considered peering through the lens, but I really didn't want to waste too much time, so I turned, ready to descend the spiral staircase again… and that's when I caught sight of him.
A man was ascending the rocky steps that led from the shoreline below to the high bluff where the lighthouse sat. When he reached the top of the cliff, he paused in surprise at the sight of our golf cart on the isolated trail.
The trespasser scratched his dark head, staring at the cart. He seemed puzzled for some reason.
Was it possible this man was our burglar, returning to the scene of the crime? Maybe Fiona's maid had scared him away and he was hiding out until the place was deserted again. At the very least, he could be a witness to something that had happened here earlier!
The antique telescope was set up for a view of the ocean, which meant I had to kick-slide the heavy tripod across the floor so I could get a better look at the stranger. It was tough work, but by the time the man furtively crossed the trail, I'd gotten my first good view. I'd simply hoped to be able to describe the man to the police at some later date. I didn't expect to recognize him!
It was Dr. Randall Rubino, carrying the same beige canvas backpack over his shoulder that he'd been holding in my bookstore earlier. He was wearing the same clothes, too-only now he was actually wearing his yellow J. Crew jacket, probably to ward off the stiffening wind coming off the ocean.
I took a closer look at his bag. It seemed more stuffed than ever-so stuffed it actually bulged.
I froze with a thought.
I hear you, said Jack. That pack just might be filled with cassette tapes and Dr. Lilly's missing computer and manuscript.
As I spied on the doctor, he crossed the trail and entered the thick woods. He must have found an easy path into the brush, beca
use Rubino quickly vanished from sight, even from my high vantage point.
But I couldn't let him get away. If he was carrying the stolen stuff, I had to catch him red-handed. And this was my chance!
I bolted down the spiral staircase so fast my low heels set the wrought-iron structure to wobbling. Standing near the picture window, Fiona Finch grinned like a proud parent.
"So, how did you like the view? Spectacular, isn't-"
I raced to the front door without a word, thrusting Seymour aside to get there.
"Yo! Pen? What's up?"
"Follow me! Important!" I cried.
In seconds, I was outside and down the flagstone path. Once through the trellis, I ran to the spot where I thought Dr. Rubino had entered the woods.
"Slow down, Pen!" Seymour called, huffing and puffing far behind me.
I found a path immediately, right near one of the Finch Inn's PRIVATE PROPERTY! NO TRESPASSING! signs that were posted all over the area, and followed it for perhaps twenty or thirty yards. Then it forked into two paths leading off in opposite directions.
Stymied by the fork, I looked for footprints, or any sign of Rubino's passing. I saw nothing.
Then I heard Seymour again. "Pen! Where are you?"
"Over here!" I yelled back. "I'm at the fork, just keep following the trail!"
I couldn't wait around for Seymour to catch up. Dr. Rubino already had a good head start. Even if I picked the right path, I'd have a hard time catching up with him.
"I'm going left!" I yelled to Seymour. "you go right!"
Then I took a deep breath and plunged down the left-hand path. I proceeded along for five minutes. It was still, cool, and dark under the canopy of trees-a little too dark, I thought, looking up. Through a break in the leaves, I saw clouds gathering. The wind had picked up, too, swishing the branches over my head.
I pressed on. The path wound around a deep ravine strewn with fallen trees. There was another fork and I thought I saw footprints down the right-hand trail, so I took it.
" Seymour!" I yelled behind me. "If you can hear me, I'm taking the right path on the second fork!"
As I ran forward, I began to hear a rumbling vibration. It was faint at first, but it quickly grew louder. "What's that?"
An engine, dollface, Jack replied in my head. A big one.
I recalled Fiona's complaint about dirt bikers, and realized I was probably smack-dab in the middle of a popular trail. I was stuck here, too. Thick thorn bushes had grown high between rows of giant oaks in this area of the narrow path, so there was nowhere to go but forward, or back. But I couldn't tell which direction the bike was coming from, only that it was getting closer.
Within seconds, the rumble became a roar. Bouncing off the trees, the mechanical growl seemed to come from everywhere.
Get out of the way! Jack yelled in my mind.
Instead of listening, I turned. Eyes wide, I spied a motor-cycle barreling right at me along the path. Like a doe caught in a Hummer's headlamps, I froze, paralyzed!
I said move!
I'm not sure what happened in that final, critical second. But I must have instinctively leaped aside just as the big, Darth Vader of a motorcyclist reached me because I narrowly avoided getting run down. As the bike and the biker roared past me in a cloud of dirt; however, I wasn't able to avoid the stout tree trunk. Slamming headlong into the rough bark, I saw an explosion of searing white light.
After that, everything went blacker than noir.
CHAPTER 11. Wrong Turn
SAILOR: Where are we?
SAM MASTERSON: In a small accident.
SAILOR: What happened?
SAM MASTERSON: The road curved but I didn't.
– The Strange Love of Martha Ivers, 1946
New York City May 10, 1948
"IT'S SO DARK…"
"There's a good reason for that, baby. We're under the East River."
"What?"
I opened my eyes. My black-framed glasses were gone again, but I could see just fine. Around me was a mass of metal. In front of me stretched a dashboard with big, clunky gauges that looked like something out of the Smithsonian. Above it, a windshield framed a dim roadway, and on the driver's side of the front seat was Jack Shepard-only not in spirit.
The PI's sandy brown hair was neatly trimmed, his iron jaw was freshly shaved, and his broad-shouldered form was draped in what looked like a brand-new, deep blue, double-breasted suit. He even had a matching blue fedora, which rested between us on the seat.
"Where are we again?" I asked Jack's granite profile.
"We're in the new tunnel," he said. "Well, kinda new. They opened it about ten years back. It's the tube that connects Manhattan with Long Island City."
"We're driving through the Queens Midtown Tunnel?"
"Bingo."
I studied the roadway in front of us. The car's headlights were on-and they needed to be. The weak yellow light bulbs that ran along this concrete tube's ceiling gave less illumination than a mausoleum.
"Jack, I don't understand. Why did you bring me down here?"
"Well, gee, for a dime, I could've gotten us both across the river by subway, but where we're going isn't exactly the safest part of town for a dame to hoof it, so I scared up some wheels for us instead."
Slumping back in the monster car's big front seat, I put a hand to my head. "Why do I feel like a truck hit me?"
"Because you should have listened to me, doll, and jumped sooner."
"When?"
"On that wooded trail, which you shouldn't have been on in the first place." Jack's jaw worked a moment. "Dames like you make me crazy. Always trying to be good girls and get along and accommodate and make everybody happy. Then the one time you decide to grow a backbone and dig your heels in, you nearly get yourself run over."
"I don't have the foggiest notion what you're talking about."
Jack's slate gray eyes glanced at me. "I just don't like worrying about you."
"You worry about me?"
"In life, I never worried about anybody's hide but my own. I figured that's the way it'd be for me in death, too." "Guess you figured wrong then." "Guess so."
The tunnel was coming to an end and Jack's gaze returned to the road ahead. He pulled up to a toll booth and paid. Then we were off again, backtracking toward the other side of the East River, only this time above ground. As we drove along, I watched the sun sinking below the Manhattan skyline. Blue twilight was settling over New York 's five boroughs.
"Welcome to Queens, baby. Home of the 1939 World's Fair, the Steinway piano, and Harry Houdini's final resting place."
I'd been to Queens only a few times when I lived in New York City, mainly to travel back and forth to LaGuardia Airport. I'd never been to this part of the borough, so I wasn't altogether sure what Long Island City looked like in my time. In Jack's time, it was obviously a major manufacturing zone. Hundreds of factories were jammed together along the streets. I read the signs as we passed them: machinery parts, paint, shoes, bread, sugar, even spaghetti.
As we drove closer to the river, smokestacks rose up like sooty tree trunks. Between their dirty silhouettes, I spotted tugboats, container ships, and barges full of coal moving along the water, beyond a collection of busy docks.
Traffic on the road was pretty heavy, too. Delivery trucks roared by as Jack did his best to circumvent the gridiron of elevated subway lines, railroad yards, and bridge approaches. He signaled a lane change but someone behind him didn't notice because a horn blasted and a bakery truck suddenly swerved, narrowly cutting us off. Jack cursed as his hands jerked the wheel. I slid across the seat, slamming into him.
He straightened the car out again. "You okay, doll?"
"Whoa, don't you have any seatbelts in this tank?"
"Seat what?"
"Seatbelt, Jack. It locks around your waist to keep you from sliding all over the place, or worse slamming your head into the-" I frowned at the dashboard. "That thing's solid metal, isn't it?"
; "What thing? The dashboard? This is a 1939 Packard, honey. What else would it be?"
I shuddered at the idea of cracking my forehead open against that thing. In fact, my head felt like it already had.
"Good lord, Jack. No seatbelts, no shoulder harnesses, no airbags, and a dashboard of solid metal! How did your generation stay alive on the road?"
"Well, let's see now, baby…when my generation wasn't struggling to survive a nationwide Depression, we were trying to keep from dying in a world war. Vehicular safety wasn't high on our list of concerns. But if you're that worried about smash-ups, I have an idea how to keep you from bouncing around in my car-"
He dropped one hand off the steering wheel, snaked a muscular arm around my waist, and pulled me playfully against him. "How's that, doll? Nicer than a crummy old seatbelt, isn't
it?"
"That's all right, Jack," I said, fighting a warm flush of embarrassment. "I don't need a seatbelt. I'll just make do."
As I extricated myself from his grip and slid to the other side of the car, Jack laughed. It was an amused, highly infuriating sound, as if he knew exactly how I'd react to his pass. That's when I noticed his smashed fedora sitting on the seat between us. I picked up the mangled hat and waved it in front of his nose.
"See what you get for teasing me. Your headgear's as flat as a pancake."
He snatched it from my fingers and tossed it into the backseat. "It's okay, baby. Feeling your heart skip a beat over me was worth it."
He laughed again, and I attempted to regain my dignity by roughly straightening my outfit. That's when I realized I was no longer wearing my own clothes. Once again, Jack had chosen an outfit for me, only this time I wasn't decked out in a slit-skirted gown with four-inch heels. My current forties costume consisted of a tweed suit with a cinched waist, a knee-l ength skirt, and brown shoes with a nice low, sane amount of heel.
I was about to thank Jack for the wardrobe improvements when I caught my reflection in the sideview mirror. My auburn hair was curled into a lovely, sleek pageboy, but my face was displaying quite a lot of makeup. The colors looked strange.
The Ghost and the Femme Fatale Page 11
