The Ghost and the Femme Fatale

by Alice Kimberley

  "Is that so?" Hedda finished signing and handed the book back to the young woman. She waved the next customer forward, a young man wearing a St. Francis College T-shirt.

  "You know, it's sad." She glanced at me, then back down at the book she was signing. "There are so many desperate writers out there like Irene Lilly, hacking out some story that wouldn't have existed in the first place if it weren't for people like me, people with innate talent who risked and toiled to become recognized figures. They're rather like parasites, don't you think?"

  "Dr. Lilly claims in this new book that Irving Vreen's death wasn't an accident. She claims that Pierce Armstrong was set up and betrayed. She claims that what happened at the Porter-house restaurant in 1948 was calculated, premeditated. Cold-blooded murder."

  Hedda ignored me for a moment, handed the book she'd just signed to the young man and waved at the next person to step up. It was another young man, a very handsome one wearing a fraternity jacket. She winked flirtatiously at the boy and laughed.

  "What do you think, young man?" she teased. "Have I still got it?"

  He laughed and nodded vigorously, his cheeks reddening. She giggled like a young girl, then opened his book and began to sign.

  "You know, Mrs. McClure…" She looked my way, then back to the book. "Another ambitious writer once tried to stir the pot, just like Dr. Lilly. This was back in 1966, before you were even born."

  "What happened?" I pressed.

  "This young man, a magazine journalist, tracked me down, tried to shock me with allegations and pointed questions. I had nothing to say, of course. He dug and dug but found nothing and simply gave up. Nobody really cared anymore, you see? It was all played out already. Irving Vreen was long dead by then. And nobody really cares about the dead. To the living, they're just… irrelevant."

  Speak for yourself, you old bag!

  "Easy, Jack."

  I'll show the self-satisfied biddy how irrelevant the dead are!

  "No, Jack. No more haunting the customers! You promised!" Just a little levitating table action, baby. Maybe blow some frigid wind up her pristine pants. "Jack! Behave!"

  Why? If I give her a heart attack, maybe she'll finally see how irrelevant she really is.

  Hedda smiled and shook her head, as if amused. "Later, in the seventies," she went on, "there was a famous episode of an old television police show that was a thinly disguised version of what happened that night at the Porterhouse. The show cast me as the kind of femme fatale I played on screen, tried to say that I planned Irving 's death. But that was a television show. Complete fiction. Just like Dr. Lilly's book…"

  My brow wrinkled. "I thought you said that you didn't know about her book."

  "I don't. I just…" Hedda shrugged. "I simply assumed from what you've told me that she was trying to do what that journalist had tried to do: dredge up an ugly incident for her own gain."

  "I haven't read the entire book yet," I admitted. " But Dr. Lilly may have found proof to substantiate her charges."

  Hedda sighed. "Well, if she didn't put it in the book, I guess we'll never know, will we? I mean…" The elderly actress fixed her cool green gaze on me. "We can't very well ask her now, can we?"

  "No," I said, holding Hedda's fixed stare, "we can't."

  The actress nodded and turned back to her signing.

  "But," I added after a moment, "I'm sure someone will be asking Pierce Armstrong about it this weekend."

  Hedda froze the moment I mentioned the name of her former leading man. Her pen stopped moving. Hedda G- was as far as her small, fluid script got. It took a few more seconds for her to finish writing her own name.

  "Pierce Armstrong?" she finally repeated after clearing her throat. "I'm sorry. What's that you're saying, Mrs. McClure? I think I misheard you."

  "Pierce Armstrong is going to appear at the Quindicott Film Noir Festival sometime this weekend. He's a surprise guest."

  "But… how can that be? Nobody's heard from Mr. Armstrong in decades… I mean… his name disappeared off the guild lists, and… I… I didn't realize that he was even still alive."

  "I haven't seen him yet myself. He's in town though. Professor Brainert Parker told me he's staying as a guest in Dean Pepper's home."

  "Well, it's been years, I must say. More like a lifetime. I can't imagine what Pierce would think, seeing me after all these decades… but I'd be very interested in saying hello to him" Hedda's smile appeared tight. She lowered her voice.

  Through gritted teeth, she asked: "How many more books must I sign here, Mrs. McClure?"

  I glanced up at the crowd. Only about a half-dozen more people were lined up. I signaled to Seymour. "That young woman in the blue shirt is the last one in line. Let's keep it that way, okay? We're done after her."

  Seymour saluted. "Aye, aye, Captain."

  Hedda signed two more books and then an attractive, dark haired man stepped up-he had sleepy eyes and a yellow J. Crew Windbreaker draped over his arm. I recognized him instantly. And I noticed with interest that he was no longer carrying his bulky canvas backpack.

  "Hello there, Hedda." The man's voice was as smooth as I remembered. "Would you mind signing a book for your biggest fan?"

  "Dr. Rubino!" Hedda immediately brightened. "What a delightful surprise!"

  "The delight is seeing you here," he said. "I was in town on business, and I almost forgot that this weekend was the film noir festival you were telling me about at your last appointment." Randall Rubino's sleepy dark eyes glanced up at me then, and he smiled. "Penelope here was good enough to let me know about your signing." He handed the book over. "Would you mind?"

  "Mind? I'm flattered! And more than happy to oblige with a personal inscription… "

  Rubino nodded and set down the book. As Hedda went about scribbling a note in her small, fluid handwriting, I suddenly remembered something.

  "Jack?" I silently whispered.

  Yeah, baby?

  "Have you noticed how small Hedda's handwriting is?" Yeah, baby, an hour ago. I was waiting to see how long it'd take you.

  "In the dream you gave me, Benny had to squint to make out the second signature in the Gotham Features log book. The first Pierce Armstrong signature was in big, bold block letters, the second was small, fluid script."

  So either Armstrong likes to write his name two different ways, or Hedda signed out the second car herself and wrote down Pierce's name to keep herself out of the written record.

  "So what was she doing picking up the DA's mistress at the Hotel Chester? Was she a friend of the girl's? Isn't that a little coincidental-since the DA was at the Porterhouse the very night of Vreen's stabbing? And what's with Dr. Rubino showing up here after his run in the woods? I still think it was strangely coincidental that I spotted him near the lighthouse so soon after the burglary."

  After a few more charming but fairly insubstantial remarks to Hedda, Dr. Rubino gave me another smile, then picked up his signed book and stepped away. I watched his back as he wandered toward the Event room's exit.

  Why are you just standing there, baby? You're not letting him go, are you? Get your panties in gear, and go brace the man!

  My eyes wide from Jack's balling-out, I hastily excused myself from Hedda's side and rushed across the room to catch Rubino.

  "Doctor? Pardon me! Dr. Rubino, I'd like to speak with you in private."

  Randall Rubino turned around and calmly nodded, as if he wasn't one bit surprised to be collared. "Of course, Penelope, of course."

  He almost sounded resigned. I pointed to a quiet corner of the Events room. We strolled over there, and Rubino immediately started talking.

  "I can't say that I'm surprised by this, Penelope."

  "Really?"

  "I don't think you should be embarrassed, either." "I'm not."

  "Good. What happened earlier was quite a shock. Anyone would have reacted the way you did."

  I blinked, hardly able to believe getting the man to talk was going to be this easy. "That's nice of
you to say, Dr. Rubino, considering the situation."

  Strangely enough, Dr. Rubino then handed me Hedda's book to hold while he reached into his jacket pocket for a pad and pen.

  "Oh, Doctor. You don't have to write it down. Just talk to me, tell me everything. Get it all off your chest."

  The doctor froze. "What are you talking about?"

  "What do you mean? I'm talking about seeing you at the Charity Point Lighthouse and running after you into the woods. I wanted to question you then, but I lost you. I assume you have something to confess, and I'm glad you're making it easy."

  "Now I really don't know what you're talking about," said Rubino.

  "Well what were you talking about?"

  "Writing you a prescription for Valium, of course!"

  "I thought you were going to explain why you were running away from a recently burglarized bungalow. A bungalow belonging to a woman who you declared died of an accident- when it was not an accident at all."

  "Penelope, I really do think you need some medication." Rubino began scribbling on his prescription pad.

  "Don't evade the question, Doctor. What were you doing at the Charity Point Lighthouse?"

  "If you must know, I was hiking the area, looking for a good spot to fish. I did notice a NO TRESPASSING sign near the light-house and that's why I hurried away. I had no idea I was on private property." He shook his head. "I'm surprised to learn you saw me-or that you were trying to chase me down."

  I studied Rubino's knitted brows. "You fish?"

  "Yes, the area near your town has some of the best oceanside fishing in the state. When Chief Ciders called me here today, I packed my gear."

  "Oh, you packed your gear, did you? Then where is it?"

  "In the trunk of my car. Where else?" Rubino ripped off the prescription and handed it to me. "Now if you'll give me back my signed book, I'll be on my way."

  "But… "

  Dr. Rubino snatched the book from my hands. "I'd advise you to get that prescription filled right away, Penelope. The stress is obviously getting to you." Then he turned on his heel and began to walk away. "And don't take it with alcohol," he tossed over his shoulder.

  Congratulations, baby, your gumshoeing just got hinky.

  "Well, you weren't exactly a big help."

  There was no saving that interrogation, honey. It was about the absolute worst I've seen in all my years-and I'm including the dead ones.

  "You don't need to rub it in."

  Tell you what: I'll make it up to you.

  "What? Another night tailing cheating husbands while drinking martinis stirred not shaken?"

  No baby, another lead. Turn around and take a look at who else seems to be Dr. Rubino's friend.

  Through the archway connecting the Events room to the store's selling floor, I saw Randall Rubino speaking with someone. I took a few steps closer to the room's exit and finally saw who: Harmony Middleton. The two were standing very close, their heads bent together in private conversation. As I watched, it appeared the good doctor was growing impatient, even angry.

  A lover's spat? Jack proposed.

  "Could be," I replied.

  Suddenly, Rubino stepped back, grasped young Harmony's upper arm, and pulled her away from the crowded part of the store.

  Get closer, baby. Follow them.

  I did. Careful to stay clear of their sightline, I tailed them to a quiet aisle near the back corner, where I stocked a collection of children's and young adult mysteries for the families in the area. I peeked around the endcap display of Encyclopedia Brown books-the ones Spencer had devoured back in fourth grade.

  "Come on, Randy… you know I need it."

  It was Harmony's voice and it sounded whiney, like a brat who wanted candy.

  "Let's not go down that road again, Harmony. You remember what happened the last time."

  "You're being difficult. Can't you see my side?"

  "Let's table this discussion. It's not the time or place. Talk to me another time, all right?"

  "When?"

  "Whenever you need to. Ring my cell, and we can straighten this out."

  The two parted then, and I quickly moved away from the aisle.

  "What do you think, Jack? Seems awfully suspicious," I noted.

  Jack agreed then reminded me of one more suspicious thing. Dr. Charm says he was looking for a fishing spot when you saw him hiking near the lighthouse with a backpack, right?

  "Right."

  When you saw him out there, he was carrying a pack and nothing else. Where the hell was his fishing pole?

  CHAPTER 14. True Crime

  It was a great big elephant of a place, the kind of place crazy movie people built in the crazy twenties.

  – Sunset Boulevard, 1950

  I RETURNED TO the front of the store, resolving to keep Randall Rubino high on my "suspects with hinky alibis" list. I noticed Brainert finishing up a call on his cell. I walked over to him.

  "Have you spoken with Dr. Pepper?"

  Brainert closed his phone. "All I get is his voice mail. I've tried his home, the college, even the box office at the theater, but I can't locate the man." He sighed. "I'm sure Pierce Armstrong is settled at Wendell's house by now, but the old man might be reluctant to answer someone else's phone-"

  "Then let's drive over. Surely Armstrong will answer the door if he's there."

  Brainert nodded. "My thoughts exactly. I'm parked right across the street, and it's a short drive to Larchmont Avenue."

  "Let's go."

  I gave Sadie a heads-up, grabbed my purse from behind the sales counter, and hurried back to Brainert, who quickly scanned the room. "No sign of Seymour," he said, and started for the door.

  "Wait! I'm sure he's around. He was helping me with Hedda's signing, but we're all through with that now, so he's probably changing out of his uniform-"

  "No, no, Pen. You misunderstand," Brainert whispered conspiratorially. " Seymour 's absence is a good thing. We don't need him fawning over Pierce Armstrong while we try to interview the man, or poking fun at Dr. Pepper's good name and embarrassing us both."

  Suddenly a large arm snaked around Brainert's neck and a beefy hand mussed his neatly combed hair.

  "That's what I love about you, Brainiac," Seymour said. "Always a stickler for etiquette."

  Brainert quickly extricated himself from his friend's bear hug and smoothed down his neatly cut brown hair. He whirled to face Seymour and gasped.

  "What's the matter?" Seymour said, arms wide. "I told you I was going to change into civilian clothes."

  Seymour 's large T-shirt sported a vintage Mighty Mouse flying over a cartoon skyline, tiny cape fluttering in the breeze. His hairy legs stuck out of khaki shorts that ended just above his dimpled knees. Size-twelve feet were tucked into clogs, which he wore sans socks.

  Brainert groaned. "How old are you?"

  "Old enough," Seymour replied.

  "Except for your lack of a baseball hat-worn backward, of course-you could pass for one of my college students' younger siblings."

  Seymour reached back, yanked a ragged Red Sox cap out of his back pocket, and donned it backward.

  "Let's go," he said. "I can't wait to meet Pierce Armstrong."

  Larchmont Avenue was a quiet, shady boulevard at the top of a picturesque hill on the edge of town. The homes were large three- and four-story structures surrounded by expansive lawns and lush topiaries. Each house was unique. Many had flagstone paths, balconies, even widow's walks circling their roofs. The oaks, elm, maple, and chestnut trees that dotted the lawns and hugged the walls of the homes were well over a century old. And no home here was built later than the 1920s. That was about the last time most people in our little town of Quindicott had been able to afford a new house as large as these.

  The dean of St. Francis's School of Communications lived here, too, in a sprawling three-story building of sand-colored stone, red roof tiles, arched windows, and wrought-iron balconies.

  On the drive over, Brainert
had explained that the dean's large house was a repository for his lifelong interest in certain collectibles.

  "It's practically a museum dedicated to Hollywood of the 1940s through the '70s, chiefly related to film noir. I'm sure you'll both be impressed. It's a superb collection. The Smithsonian has expressed interest in obtaining certain pieces after his death."

  Brainert parked at the curb. He tried his colleague's home phone one more time, but only connected with the answering machine.

  With a sigh, he closed his cell phone. "Let's go."

  We followed a winding stone path through a manicured lawn trimmed in dark green shrubs and bright red tulips. At the large front porch, we paused in front of the door.

  "I hope someone's here," Brainert said as he rang the bell.

  I heard movement in the house on the second ring. The lock clicked and to my surprise screenwriter and novelist Maggie Kline opened the door.

  "Parker! What a surprise!" Laugh lines creased the edges of her eyes as she gave him a big smile. She adjusted her red-framed glasses and put a hand on the hip of her low-waisted khakis. "And you brought friends, I see. Is this a party? Did Wendell invite you over? Come on in."

  We entered a high-roofed foyer with bright yellow walls and a slowly rotating ceiling fan. The space was dominated by a huge framed poster for the film Taxi Driver. The central image of Robert De Niro as Travis Bickle was framed by a yellow border, which matched the walls. Below it was a glass case, displaying a pistol rigged on some kind of sliding rail-a prop from one of the movie's scenes, I assumed.

  "The man in the Mighty Mouse shirt is Seymour Tarnish," Brainert told Maggie. " Seymour is our local mailman, and a big fan of Pierce Armstrong's."

  "Oh, I see. You came to pay him a visit. I'm so sorry, he's not here. Wendell just took Pierce over to the Movie Town Theater for his first talk of the weekend."

  Brainert sighed. "I'm sorry we missed him, too. I called several times but-"

  "Uh-oh, my bad. I've been ignoring the phone. This is kind of embarrassing, but…" Maggie made a pained face. "Wendell's ex-wife has been calling and calling. I didn't want to complicate matters by picking up the phone again and getting into a conversation with the woman about who I am and why I'm staying with Wendell. We had one brief, unhappy conversation, and frankly I don't care to go through a repeat performance. But let's not dwell on that. Come in! Come in!"