Read The Ghost and the Femme Fatale Online
Authors: Alice Kimberly
Tags: #Mystery, #Ghost stories, #Private investigators, #Fiction, #Actors, #Women Sleuths, #Mystery And Suspense Fiction, #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Murder, #Murder - Investigation, #Film festivals, #Horror & Ghost Stories, #Mystery fiction, #Ghost, #Mystery & Detective - General, #Police Procedural, #Juvenile Fiction, #Women booksellers, #Entertainment & Performing Arts, #Rhode Island, #Actresses, #Detective, #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction - Mystery, #Contemporary, #General, #Fantasy, #Suspense, #Biography & Autobiography, #Ghosts, #Fantasy - Contemporary
The Ghost and the Femme Fatale (24 page)
People backed away, but I pushed forward until I saw Hedda on the floor, her face white, a tiny bit of foam flecking her glossy red lips. I noticed a bottle of Napa Valley Sauvignon Blanc on the table.
“Where did this wine come from?” I demanded.
Harmony blinked. Then she stared at me as if I were crazy to ask such a question at a time like this. “It’s Grandma’s favorite,” she replied. “It was delivered special to our table, sent by an anonymous secret admirer, according to the card.”
“Did anyone drink from it?” I demanded.
“Just Grandma,” Harmony said.
Rubino nodded. “I opened the wine and poured a glass for her. Hedda was enjoying it when she fainted.”
“Don’t drink that wine!” I warned. “It’s poisoned!”
“Oh, my god, Mrs. McClure,” Dr. Rubino said in horror. “If that’s true, you just saved our lives.”
“But what about Hedda?” I asked. “Is she going to be okay?”
Rubino frowned, shook his head. “The ambulance is on the way. We won’t know until we get her to a hospital.”
“You’ve got to save her, Doctor,” Harmony cried out and began to sob into her hands.
I crouched down beside Dr. Rubino. He was cradling his patient’s head in his arms. She looked old now and frail, a shadow of her former self.
Just then, the woman gasped and coughed. She opened her famous catlike eyes. Their vibrant emerald color was washed out now, the whites stained with tiny trails of blood.
I wasn’t sure if she could hear me. But I thought, for a lot of reasons, that she should know the truth.
“Ms. Geist,” I said, “you’ve been poisoned by the daughter of Irving Vreen.”
Understanding darkened the femme fatale’s face. Her lips moved but no sound came out. Then the former actress gasped once more, and her fading eyes closed for the last time.
MAGGIE WAS ARRESTED
in the parking lot. I led Officer Eddie Franzetti to the woman while she was still unconscious. My elbow still hurt like a son of a gun, but I was happy Eddie would get the collar. Bull McCoy might be the chief’s nephew, but even nepotism couldn’t trump a cop who brought in a multiple murderer.
“So what do you think, Jack?” I quietly asked the ghost as Eddie radioed headquarters.
Well, I don’t know. Things got a little hinky there for a minute, but I guess you did all right.
“Just all right?!”
Don’t push it, partner. You jumped to the wrong conclusion about Maggie at the end there. And if I hadn’t been watching your back, you might have ended up with a cracked skull. Next time, bring the copper with you.
“Hey! Wait a minute! I heard that! You actually called me
par
tner
.”
Yeah, baby, I guess this time you earned it.
“You
guess
? Wouldn’t you say having a woman around who can clock a murderer is a tad more valuable than one who’ll fetch you packs of Luckies?”
Well, that depends on how long it’s been since I had my last drag.
Twenty minutes later, the Finch Inn looked like the triage zone of a disaster area. Local cops, state police, ambulances, a forensic unit . . . I lost count in the glare of the flashing emergency lights.
“It’s justice, what I did!” Maggie Vreen Kline yelled at the top of her lungs as she struggled against Eddie Franzetti’s handcuffs.
Oh, lookee. The broad’s come to.
“Yeah, Jack, and I’d say she’s royally ticked that she won’t be getting any frequent flyer miles for that Costa Rican getaway.”
I was looming in the background at the moment, amid a half- dozen curious members of our local QPD. A big state cop named Detective- Lieutenant Roger Marsh was there, too.
Maggie’s unhinged outrage appeared to calm when she realized so many people were hanging on her every word. She’d already been read her Miranda rights, but then a reporter on the fringes of the gathering called out, “Why’d you do it?” And Maggie suddenly seemed to understand that there was an audience here, one that wanted to hear every detail of her story. That’s when the screenwriter in her apparently kicked in.
“Pierce Armstrong was the easy one,” she announced, her eyes looking glazed and bright in the eerie red glow of the emergency beacons. “I beat him to death with that stupid prop. I wanted him to die a violent death, just like my dad.”
Chief Ciders stepped up to Maggie, clearly wanting to keep her talking. “And what about Hedda?” he asked quietly. “You didn’t kill her, too, did you?”
“Of course! Hedda had to be poisoned. Just like my mother, who drank herself to death, because of what happened to Dad. That’s why Hedda deserved to die the same way as Mom: poisoned by her favorite wine . . .”
Ciders made a show of scratching his head. “That’s all well and good, Ms. Kline, but you’re not going to claim you poisoned Barry Yello, too, are you?”
“Maggie leaned back against the patrol car, a shadow crossing her face. “Yello was a no- talent loser.” she said dismissively. “He agreed to do me a few favors this weekend in exchange for persuading my contacts at Paramount to produce his low- bud get horror movie.”
“And how did you gain access to the theater?” Ciders asked.
“Easy.” Maggie shrugged. “I had Wendell Pepper eating out of my hand—getting a set of keys to the theater from him was a cakewalk.”
“Was Dean Pepper aware of your plans, Ms. Kline?” Ciders asked carefully. “Did he help you?”
“Wendell Pepper? God no. I just slept with the man a few times to get him where I wanted him. He was too gullible to suspect a thing. Barry was the one who knew what I was up to. He helped me rig that speaker to blow, just as a little ‘thrill prank’— that’s what I told him when I set the timer. But the whole thing got screwed up!” Maggie struggled against her cuffed wrists a moment, and then let her arms fall limply behind her back again.
“How did it get screwed up?’ Ciders asked. “I don’t understand.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “It was
supposed
to kill Irene Lilly! It didn’t, so I had to take care of that myself the next morning.” Maggie shook her head. “After that, I sent Barry to get me the woman’s research—he stupidly assumed she died in an accident, so he didn’t think it was a big deal to take her research. But after I made him open a trapdoor under the stage, he started getting antsy. Even with my bribe of getting his movie produced, big brave Barry started getting ner vous, asking me too many questions. He wanted out. So I
put
him out—
permanently
.”
Maggie laughed. “Barry Yello is no loss to the world, believe me.”
“What about Dr. Lilly then?” Ciders asked. “What did she do to deserve death?”
“Irene Lilly started it all. Don’t you know that?” Maggie’s face contorted in the shadows, her expression turning into something ugly. “Lilly called me up one day. Tells me, ‘I know who you are!’ She had the whole story down, she just wanted some actors to fill out her little play. Wanted us all here in one town, in one place, so she could stand in the spotlight. Well, when I found out Hedda and Pierce were going to be
honored
at this festival . . . that did it.”
“That made you decide to kill them?” Ciders pressed.
Behind her bright red glasses, Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “How would
you
feel? To hear that your father’s murderers were invited to some festival to be
celebrated
? To hear the people responsible for your mother’s misery, the ones who drove her to drink herself to death, were being honored.
Applauded?!
Oh, no. No, no,
no
!”
Maggie vehemently shook her head; her bouncy curls fell into her eyes. She hurled them back with a violent head toss. “I started making my plans as soon as Dr. Lilly contacted me. Only I was the one who would be using Irene Lilly, not the other way around. She didn’t care about my father. She was set on resurrecting the scandal for her own recognition and profit.
But, you see . . . she
knew
who I was, and that’s why she had to be first. Before anyone else went,
she
had to go. And she did. All it took was one little push off a ladder.”
Ciders noticed me then, standing among his officers. He met my eyes, nodded his head. It was the closest thing to official recognition I’d ever get. But, frankly, for this little town, it was good enough for me. Anyway, I had to hand it to the chief: For all his faults and bluster, he certainly knew how to keep a perp talking!
“And what about those innocent people at Hedda’s table?” Ciders added tightly, his contained outrage starting to leak through. “They could’ve drunk that poisoned wine and died to night, too.”
Maggie frowned, looked away. “Collateral damage,” she muttered. “Crap happens.”
Ciders cursed. He’d finally heard enough. “Take her away.”
Two giant state police officers in gray uniforms and Smokey the Bear hats opened the door of the patrol car and guided Maggie inside. Then Detective- Lieutenant Marsh stepped up to Ciders.
“Who made this collar?” his voice boomed. “I have a few questions.”
“It was my se nior officer, Eddie Franzetti,” Ciders said. “Eddie! Front and center!”
I wasn’t worried about Eddie knowing the case. I’d briefed him well before anyone arrived. He was a smart guy. Always was. My brother, Pete, had loved him like a brother, too.
“Yes, sir?” said Eddie, standing tall, legs braced in front of the brawny state detective. “You have questions?”
“Dozens, son,” replied the detective- lieutenant. “But at the moment I just want to say: Good work!” Marsh shook Eddie’s hand. “You ever think about coming over to the state police, you let me know. Investigations can use a good man like you.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, so can the town of Quindicott,” said Chief Ciders, breaking the two men up. “Eddie’s on track for a big promotion.”
Eddie’s eyes widened. “I am?”
“Doggone right!” Ciders insisted, slapping Eddie on the back. “You’re a valuable member of the department, Eddie. I’m not about to lose you...”
As the lawmen continued to polish their laurels, I yawned and noticed my aunt Sadie hurrying up to me. She was looking quite smart in a forties- style wool suit and matching hat, white gloves on her hands, red gloss on her lips. Bringing up the rear was Bud Napp. My jaw dropped at the sight of him.
All that talk of dressing like Tarzan was obviously a joke; I’d never seen the man more stylishly attired. A charcoal- colored double- breasted suit hugged his tall, lanky form. He was clean-shaven (for once), and his usual ball cap with the frayed brim was replaced with a sharply boxed fedora. He wore a pearl silk tie with a diamond stick pin and a handkerchief to match.
“Penelope!” Aunt Sadie cried. “Are you all right? We heard what you did!”
“Who, me?” I said with a shrug. “I just bumped my elbow while I was waving to Eddie for help.”
Bud folded his arms. “That’s a load of crap, Pen. I know it was you who did the dirty work. You were on this case from the very beginning.”
I smiled and lowered my voice. “Let’s just keep that between friends, okay?”
I gestured to Eddie, who was getting patted on the back by the state officers and his fellow cops, including a petulant-looking Bull McCoy. That alone gave me satisfaction.
“So,” I said, turning back to my aunt and her beau, “who are you two dressed as? You both look great.”
“I’m Kay Bentley,” Aunt Sadie said. “The brash and beautiful reporter from
Sleepers West
.”
“And I’m Detective Mike Shayne, Irish- American private eye, who can’t keep his eyes off the brash and beautiful reporter—same movie.”
I laughed for a second, and then I wanted to cry. “The dinner’s totally ruined, isn’t it?”
Sadie and Bud shook their heads. “Not at all. Fiona’s serving now. Brainert’s announced the dinner will be a tribute to Dr. Lilly, Barry Yello, Hedda Geist, and Pierce Armstrong. Don’t forget, dear, this is a crowd of film noir fans. Everything that happened this weekend pretty much reinforced their view of this bitter little world.”
Didn’t I tell you all females are the same with their faces
washed?
—Dead Reckoning,
1947
HEY, PENNY WITH
the copper hair . . .
“Jack! Where’ve you been? I haven’t heard from you in days.”
I needed a rest, baby.
“You’re kidding? Are you telling me the excitement in this little cornpone town was actually too much for Wild Jack, King of the Asphalt Jungle?”
Something like that.
A full week had passed since the film festival murders, and the town was finally getting back to normal. Brainert’s theater had moved on to showcasing Eu ro pe an New Wave cinema, Sadie was out on a date with Bud at the Seafood Shack, and I was extremely happy to be sitting at home on the living room couch, finally looking after my son in person.
Spencer was getting so big now, growing up so fast. I knew there wouldn’t be many more years where we could just play Scrabble, eat Franzetti’s take- out pizza, and watch Jack Shield episodes on the Intrigue Channel until bedtime.
So I’ve got some questions for you, partner.
Jack’s deep voice rumbled through my head.
“Partner . . .” I smiled. “I do love the sound of that word.”
I know you do.
“Okay, shoot—not with an actual gun or anything.”
If you start with the bad jokes, I’m leaving.
“Wow, Jack. Who knew Borscht Bell one- liners could be a form of exorcism.”
Listen, smartypan ties, my question is about that academic broad, Dr. Lilly.
“Go for it.”
Did the police ever recover the stolen items from her bungalow?
“You’re taking about her laptop, manuscript, and tapes? The ones Barry swiped for Maggie Kline the morning she signed books at our store?”
Yeah, baby. That’s what I’m talking about
.
“Well, according to Eddie, the police found all of that stolen stuff in Maggie’s luggage. And after they combed through it all, they found exactly what I thought they would—lots and lots of source material, the stuff Brainert said was missing from Dr. Lilly’s first book. There were copies of Jack Warner’s memos and Irving Vreen’s written answers, too.”
Where the hell did Lilly even get that stuff after all these years?
“Apparently some old studio executive died and left a storeroom of books, files, film clips, and movie memorabilia to relatives. They sold the stuff in lots on eBay. Dr. Lilly was doing research on another subject entirely—the casting pro cess of film noir stars—but when she stumbled upon these old memos and letters about Hedda Geist, she started digging into that story and realized she’d uncovered a fresh angle on a sixty year- old scandal.”
Hmmmm . . . then our dead Lilly turned out to be some detective, huh?
“No doubt. Among her things, there was a paper trail showing how she tracked down Pierce Armstrong and contacted Hedda Geist. She had even obtained a copy of Margaret Vreen’s birth certificate as well as her adoption papers, and other proofs of her true identity.”
But Lilly never came out with the truth about Maggie. Why?
“I asked Eddie that, too. He said there was something on Dr. Lilly’s laptop that was pretty incriminating. Maggie Kline had sent the woman an e-mail promising to give Lilly an exclusive interview during Quindicott’s Film Noir Weekend—but with one stipulation. Dr. Lilly had to keep Maggie’s true identity in the strictest confidence and only reveal it at the time of her
second
book’s publication.”
Very clever. The Kline broad knew Dr. Lilly would never get the chance to publish her second book.
“Right. Maggie was already planning to kill the woman and make it look like she’d died in an accident. Then Maggie could go on to exact her revenge on Hedda and Pierce, killing them without anyone suspecting she had a motive.”
Jack whistled.
That was quite the little mur
der plot.
“Well, it was concocted by a screenwriter. And guess what? After Maggie was arrested, I went back and took a harder look at her books. I even looked up summaries of her old screen and teleplays on the Internet, too. And lo and behold, most of the woman’s stories were revenge fantasies.” I shook my head. “Maggie Vreen Kline never got over what happened to her father and her family and herself.”
But you said it yourself, baby, the key word wasn’t
revenge.
It was
fantasy.
If Dr. Lilly hadn’t decided to dredge up the past again and rub Maggie Kline’s nose in it, the Kline broad probably would have let the past fade away, just like Hedda and Pierce’s careers.
“I think you’re right about that . . . I mean, she never actively tracked Hedda and Pierce down to harm them. Maggie said it herself the night she was arrested: She just couldn’t take her father’s murderers being honored, being celebrated.” I took a breath, considering Maggie’s story.
“It’s so sad when I think of what she must have gone through as a little girl . . . knowing her father died a horrible death, watching the unfolding scandal in the papers, the shame her mother must have felt—even to the point of drinking herself to death. I can only imagine Maggie’s own pain, finding herself alone in the world at such a young age, being adopted by a family on another coast. Her feelings of anger and vengefulness toward Hedda and Pierce must have been off the charts for a long time . . . and, I guess, after all these years, Maggie finally did get her revenge on them.”
But don’t forget, doll, she took innocent people out with them. She became as cold- blooded a murderer as Hedda.
“And she almost got away with it, too...”
If it weren’t for you. baby.
I smiled. “And you, too. Jack. Partners, remember?” Jack grunted, which I took for full agreement. “Anyway,” I said, “it looks like your cold case is closed, too.”
Yeah, and Hedda’s granddaughter, Harmony, turned out to be an innocent after all.
“I don’t know if I’d use that word. The girl’s already started partying, I hear. She’s moving to New York City next month. She’s due to inherit a lot of Hedda’s money—of course, there’s one big stipulation.”
Let me guess. She has to ride Hedda’s horse two hours a day.
“Close. To keep her share of the inheritance, she’s got to devote a large block of it to creating a Hedda Geist Museum, filled with costumes and scripts that the old actress kept preserved in plastic from her days as a femme fatale.”
You know, doll, that doesn’t really surprise me.
“Me, either.”
Once a diva, always a diva.
Just then, another episode of Jack Shield started up on the televi sion. Spencer and I watched for a while. Every few minutes I’d hear Jack gripe about how silly the show was or ask,
Do you know how often a real gumshoe would do that? Never.
Finally, the show ended, and Spencer went off to bed. I kissed my boy goodnight and headed to my own room. Jack had gone quiet by now, so I clicked off the light and settled under the covers. Then, just as I closed my eyes and started drifting off, I heard the ghost’s familiar deep voice again, rumbling through my mind—
Hey, baby?
“Yeah?”
Remember when I kissed you? Back in ’48? In my ransacked office?
“Yeah.” My eyes were still closed. I smiled. “I remember, Jack.”
Remember what you were thinking?
“I was thinking that it felt like heaven.”
Just wanted you to know... it felt like that for me, too. Heaven, I mean.
There was a long silence after that, so long that I thought Jack had gone away, until I heard the faintest whisper.
I’ll see you in your dreams, baby . . .
Then the ghost’s presence receded once more, into the fieldstone walls that had become his tomb.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alice Kimberly
is the pen name for a multi-published author who regularly collaborates with her writer husband. In addition to the Haunted Bookshop Mysteries, she and her husband also write the bestselling Coffee house Mysteries under the pen name Cleo Coyle. To learn more about Alice Kimberly, the Haunted Bookshop Mysteries, or the Coffee house Mysteries, visit the author’s virtual coffee house at . . .
www .CoffeehouseMystery .com