The Ghost and the Femme Fatale

by Alice Kimberley

  "What's on my lips?" I murmured.

  "Lipstick," he said. "Hokey-Pokey Pink."

  "You've got to be kidding."

  "What's your beef?" Jack said defensively. "I saw it in a magazine. It's the most expensive brand on the market: one whole dollar, plus tax."

  "Redheads don't wear bright pink lipstick."

  "Why not?"

  "They just don't."

  "Well if you're worried about how you look, baby, it's a waste of brain cells. You're cute as the lace panties you're wearing under that getup. I picked them out of a magazine, too, along with your bra, stockings, and garter belts."

  My cheeks now matched the Hokey-Pokey Pink lipstick. "Can we please get off the subject of my underwear?"

  Jack snorted. "Forget getting off the subject. I'd rather just get off your-"

  "Jack!" I interrupted, "I'm sure you didn't bring me back here just to talk about my panties. So I'd appreciate it if you'd-"

  "Okay, okay," he said. "I'll get down to business."

  And he did, promptly filling me in on what I'd missed since our night at the Porterhouse Restaurant. Irving Vreen, the Gotham Studio head, had expired from his stab wound (no surprise), and Hedda Geist's actor boyfriend, Pierce Armstrong, had been taken into custody.

  "But not Hedda herself?" I asked.

  "The tabloids are hounding her every day, but she's still free as a bird."

  "Can we find out more about the case?" I asked. "Which one?"

  "What do you mean, which one?" I said. "Vreen's death, of course."

  "You forget, baby, Vreen wasn't my case. The reason I took you to the Porterhouse in the first place was because I was tailing Nathan Burwell at the time. That's why I'd witnessed Vreen's stabbing-it was in my memories. I've told you before: I'm a ghost, not a magician. I can't take you anywhere I didn't go in life."

  "Yes, Jack. I understand." I sat up straighter as it all came back to me. "Burwell was your cheating-husband case. But wasn't that case a little dicey, trying to get evidence on someone as powerful as the city's district attorney?"

  Jack checked his rear-view mirror, gave a little smirk. "Why do you think I'm wearing a new suit?"

  "Oh, I get it. Burwell's wife is paying you enough to make it worth your while?"

  "Bingo, doll, only I ran into a little roadblock."

  "What do you mean?" I worriedly glanced around. "You wrecked the Packard?"

  Jack sighed. "I was talkin' figuratively, baby. Try to keep up. See, I was tailing Burwell and his chippy for a few weeks before Vreen got the big knife in the back. I'd been taking notes on the DA's trysts, getting photos of the two together when I could- on the street, in a diner, in front of the Hotel Chester. Then all of a sudden…" Jack snapped his fingers.

  "What?"

  "Over. Burwell's back to his old routine. No more cheating. No more visits with the chippy. After about a week, I figure that's okay. Maybe the stabbing spooked the hubby, and he thought it best to end the affair. So I still think everything's jake because I know where the girl's staying. I go to her hotel-but she's not there."

  "She checked out?"

  "Gone. Lammed it on May sixth, the morning after Vreen's murder. The clerk at the Chester gives me a name and address, but they don't exist. So now I'm holding the bag."

  "Why?"

  "Because I need that girl…" Jack checked his rear-view again. "I need her in the flesh."

  "Why? You've got evidence, haven't you?"

  "My notes can be disputed. Even photos can be explained away. But the actual girl can be subpoenaed to testify under oath. Burwell's wife needs that assurance before she tries to put the screws to her husband. Without the chippy's real name and address, I can't even verify that she was underage, which would have been the lynchpin to getting Burwell to settle out of court."

  "You have any leads on her?"

  "Two-maybe."

  "What are they?"

  "First one's you, baby."

  "Me?!"

  "Yeah. When you first saw that girl in the restaurant, you said she looked familiar."

  "I did…but Idon't remember where I've seen her before. I'm sorry, Jack."

  "Well, keep working on it, because I can use all the help I can get right now."

  "What's your second lead?"

  "A 1941 gull gray Lincoln Continental Cabriolet with spode green wheels." "Excuse me?"

  "That's the only lead I've got on the DA's chippy. The bellboy at the Chester remembered taking her suitcase out to that make and model car. I remembered a car like that outside the hotel when Burwell went upstairs to…" Jack paused abruptly and cleared his throat. "When he went upstairs with the girl."

  "I understand."

  "I know you do. Anyway, I got its plate number in my notes so I had a friend at my old precinct run the license. Got an address in Queens along with a name-Lester Sanford."

  Jack was driving as he talked, moving us north along the East River. The sun had completely set by now, and night was creeping across the sky. As stars appeared in the darkening purple, Jack turned abruptly and zigzagged through an area of warehouses and garages. Finally, we ended up on a large, brightly lit avenue, where every few blocks rough-looking men spilled out of dive bars. There were dock workers, stone cutters, sailors, and factory men-some of them were falling-down drunk, others were shouting or starting brawls.

  Jack was right, I realized: This wasn't a safe neighborhood for a dame to hoof it. I was about to mention this when I noticed him checking the rearview again.

  "You're looking in that mirror an awful lot," I noted.

  "That's because a third lead just showed up."

  "What do you mean?"

  "We're being tailed-"

  I began to spin in my seat.

  "Don't look!" Jack warned. "Keep your eyes ahead. I've been onto this car since we left the tunnel."

  We turned down Thirty-fifth Avenue, where a box truck partially blocked the road. Jack slowed to a crawl so we could inch by without stripping the car's paint. As we did, I watched men in overalls unloading what looked like fake palm trees and carrying them into a huge building. I would have guessed the place was a factory, but its exterior was too clean, and there were very large windows on the upper floors. "What is this building?"

  "Astoria Studios," Jack said. "Paramount Pictures runs it now… used to be Famous Players Lasky Corporation. They shot silent films there once, then started shooting talkies… Marx Brothers comedies, The Emperor Jones. That's also where Gotham Features rents its sound stages when they aren't shooting on the street."

  "Is that where we're going?"

  "No, but Lester Sanford's address is only a few blocks away."

  By the time we reached our destination, night had fully descended. Jack's tall figure cast a long shadow as we exited the Packard and walked between streetlights.

  The area was obviously mixed zoning. One- and two-story brick row houses sat next to warehouses and garages. As we walked, I got the feeling someone was following us. I was itching to turn around and look, but Jack quietly warned me not to swivel my head.

  "Just keep walking, baby. Don't worry. I've got my rod on me."

  "What, are you kidding? Guns are what I'm worried about."

  "I can shoot straight."

  "Yeah, but what about the other guy?"

  "Do me a favor, don't crack wise. Just keep moving those pretty lace panties of yours."

  I gritted my teeth but didn't argue, kept my focus on the task at hand. The address itself wasn't an apartment building or home. It was a very large building that looked like a factory warehouse. A parking lot sat beside it, and Jack immediately spied the gull gray Continental Cabriolet. There were actually two that looked exactly alike, right down to the green wheels. They were parked together. He checked the plates of each one, and pointed.

  "This is the one-the car I spotted idling that night outside the Hotel Chester. It's the same description the bellboy gave me of the car that picked up the DA's girl when she
checked out."

  "Why are there two cars here that look exactly alike? Don't you find that strange?"

  "Maybe not, baby. Let's have a little talk with the folks inside."

  Jack didn't bother knocking, just reached for the door handle.

  "Do you know anything about this place?" I asked.

  "It's a storage facility for Gotham Features."

  The door opened and we walked right in. Despite the hour, the place was lit up and buzzing with activity. Men in overalls were milling around, talking. I could hear hammering and sawing going on somewhere in the back. Boxes were stacked sky-high. Shelves were filled with odd items-lamps, books, kitchen appliances. Pieces of furniture for every room in a typical home were jammed into corners with fake plants and giant rocks.

  Jack didn't seem phased by the chaos. He scanned the area and the men working and walked right up to a short, stocky guy wearing glasses, pinstriped pants, and suspenders. The stocky man was holding a clipboard, shooting orders to a younger, fitter man in overalls.

  "We'll need those chairs painted over by morning. And scare me up a Victrola, will ya? We have one in the back, next to the fake radios."

  I tugged Jack's sleeve. "Who's the man giving orders?" "Property master and studio manager." "Is he Lester Sanford?" I asked. "No," Jack said.

  Just then, the property master turned, saw us, and grinned from ear to ear. "Jack! Jack Shepard?! Where've you been, you big lug!" He walked over with his hand out. Jack pumped it.

  "Hi there, Benny."

  "Who's the little lady?" Benny asked. "She's my, uh… " Jack glanced at me. "Partner," I whispered.

  "New secretary," Jack declared. "Just hired her. Ain't she a looker?"

  "I'll say." Benny smiled, looking me up and down like a prize racehorse. "I just don't get why you hired her when you could have married her." He laughed and finally addressed me. "Don't you think it's time your boss settled down?"

  Settled down? My eyebrows rose at that one. From all the wild stories the ghost had told me, I just couldn't see the living Jack Shepard smoking a pipe in the suburbs with his feet up. Even in death, the expired gumshoe was climbing the walls of my bookstore, eager to glom onto the merest hint of excitement in our "cornpone" little town.

  "I'm sure Jack's happy as a bachelor," I told Benny. "Besides, any woman he married would have to put up with-"

  Jack loudly cleared his throat, shutting me up with a pointed stare. Obviously, he preferred that I refrain from speaking during this particular meeting.

  "So how've you been, Benny?" he asked the stocky man.

  "Good, good… things around here could be better, though. You know about Irving?"

  Jack glanced at me. "Yeah. I read about what happened in the not-so-funny papers."

  "We can't believe it around here. Pierce Armstrong arrested for murder?" Benny shook his head. "He would never do anything to hurt Irving. Pierce wouldn't hurt a fly! Do you know he could get the gas chamber for this?"

  "Yeah, Benny, I know."

  "Are you here for Pierce then?" Benny asked, almost hopefully. "Did he hire you to help fight the charges?"

  "No." said Jack. I'm looking for a guy named Lester Sanford Know him?"

  "Sure, I know Sandy. He's been with us almost eight months now. He's not here at the moment though."

  "What's his title?"

  "Title?" Benny shrugged. "On the credits it's assistant producer."

  "Which translates to?"

  "Transportation manager, truck driver, and senior grease monkey."

  Jack stepped closer. "Does he own those two gull gray Lincoln Cabriolets in your parking lot?"

  Benny paused then. He seemed to be considering Jack's tone. "What's this about?" he asked, his own voice suddenly less friendly.

  Jack quickly backed off. "Oh, nothing important. It's just that I need a favor, see? I'm on a divorce case, and I'm trying to find a witness. I spotted one of Sandy 's cars at the scene, and I thought if maybe I talked to him, he'd help me out with a lead."

  Benny scratched his ear with his pen. "Well, Sandy might be listed as the owner of those cars, Jack, but he wouldn't have been driving them. Those particular cars are being used for a six- week shoot."

  "A shoot of what?"

  "Movie's called East Side Serenade. We're wrapping it next week."

  Jack's jaw worked silently. "Then anybody at the studio could have used those vehicles?"

  "Oh, no. Not anybody." Benny said. "Those are expensive automobiles. Sandy keeps a strict log. And when those keys aren't on the shoot or with a driver who signs them out, then they're with me." Benny reached into his pocket, pulled out a massive key ring, and jingled it like Santa Claus shaking his sleigh bells.

  "You wouldn't mind if I took a quick look at Sandy 's log book, would you?"

  Benny smiled. "Not if you got another hot tip for me from that jockey friend of yours at Aqueduct. You do and she's all yours."

  Jack nodded. "I'll ring you inside of a week. And that's a promise."

  "Good enough for me." Benny waved his hand. "Come on over to my desk."

  Benny rifled through a stack of clipboards and paperwork and found Sandy 's log. "What do you wanna know?" he asked, opening the log book.

  Jack pulled out a slender notebook from inside his jacket pocket, riffled backward through some pages.

  "First date I'm after is April sixteenth."

  Benny's thick finger moved down a page in the log. "Here we are. Shooting wrapped at sunset and the car was signed out by an actor."

  Jack frowned. "You let actors borrow these vehicles?"

  Benny shrugged. "Part of the perks if you're a principal player. Irving doesn't pay much, you know, so he lets them borrow the studio's cars, as long as they keep them clean and bring them back with the gas tank full."

  "Who's the actor that signed it out?"

  Benny glanced at the large, bold block letters. "Pierce Armstrong." He frowned. "That's bad luck. I mean, you can't very well talk to him about being a witness to anything when he's already in the hoosegow for a capital crime."

  "Check another date for me, would you?" Jack asked.

  "Sure."

  "May sixth."

  Benny nodded. "There was filming early that day, on location in Manhattan. Looks like a principal checked the car out again."

  "Who?"

  Benny adjusted his glasses, squinted at the small, fluid script. "Pierce Armstrong."

  Jack frowned. "But it couldn't have been. Armstrong was taken into custody the night of Vreen's stabbing, which was May fifth."

  "That's odd," Benny admitted.

  "Then you didn't witness the sign-out yourself?" Jack asked.

  "Not when they're on location. You'd have to talk to Sandy or the director, young guy named Delahunt." Benny checked his watch. "Delahunt's somewhere out on Long Island shooting workarounds. Now that Pierce Armstrong's in jail, he's trying to finish the film without him."

  "What about Sandy?" Jack asked. "He out on Long Island,

  too?"

  "Yeah, but not for the same reason. His wife just had a baby girl. He'll be off work for a few days at least."

  Jack nodded. "Okay, when will Delahunt be back here then?"

  "Tomorrow morning. But I doubt he'll remember what happened that day with the car." Benny shook his head.

  "Everyone's pretty frazzled right now with Irving dead and Pierce arrested, and when you're trying to wrap a picture one day just melts into all the others. That's why we keep logs and lists." Benny pointed to the clipboards stacked on his desk.

  "I understand," said Jack. "But I'd like to talk to the man anyway. Oh, and one more thing, Benny… "

  "Sure, Jack."

  "Is Hedda Geist on that picture, too?"

  "Of course. She's under contract. Every film she's been in has been a hit for us. No way we'd make a movie without her in a leading role."

  "So she's out there on Long Island, too?" Jack asked.

  Benny nodded.

  "
Guess I'll come back tomorrow." Jack smiled. "That is, unless you've got another case for me tonight? How's the security around here since I solved your little problem a year

  ago?"

  "Tell you what, Jack, you did me a real favor finding that Larry Lightfingers on my staff. Put the fear of God into everybody. We haven't had one more disappearing prop since. The only thing's gone missing in months is a piece of wardrobe, and I'm pretty sure it just got misplaced."

  "What was it?" Jack asked.

  Benny shrugged. "Just one of Hedda's costumes. The silver gown she wore in Wrong Turn. We had two made exactly alike, 'cause one Hedda wore for the poster and the other we had to rip at the shoulder for the opening sequence. The ripped one we still got. The other one's lost." He waved his hand. "Believe me, Jack, it's no big deal. Nothing we'd need to hire you for. That thing looked expensive on screen, but it was actually pretty cheap goods."

  Jack's eyebrow arched, he glanced down at me. "Sounds a little like Hedda herself."

  We exited the building and headed back toward Jack's Packard.

  "Okay," I said, as we walked by a line of row houses. "What was the DA's mistress doing wearing Hedda's gown? Who gave it to her? And what was Pierce Armstrong doing in a car outside the girl's hotel? Was he sleeping with her, too? Do you suspect this Delahunt character of anything? Or Lester Sanford? And can you trust Benny?"

  "Keep your voice down, baby," Jack whispered. "We're being followed."

  My eyes widened as I realized Jack already had my back. He'd positioned himself directly behind me, shielding me from any blow or bullet that might come our way.

  "What are you going to do?" I whispered.

  "Well, I'm not waiting for him to decide," Jack replied. "You see that sharp turn off the sidewalk up ahead?"

  "The alley?"

  "Turn down it, baby."

  "What? Why?"

  "Question me again, and the next time I bring you back to my time, your gumshoe work will be limited to typing and filing."

  I got the message and kept moving forward. The sidewalk was deserted, the street quiet. The only sound was the click of my heels along the broken concrete. Jack's footsteps were silent as the grave, and apparently so were the steps of the man tail-lng us.

  A single car rumbled down the road. It cruised by us quickly. I waited for it to pass and then I turned into the alley.