The Ghost and the Femme Fatale
Read The Ghost and the Femme Fatale Online
Authors: Alice Kimberly
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AND THE
g
ALICE KIMBERLY
“Part cozy and part hard- boiled detective novel with traces of the supernatural,
The Ghost and Mrs. McClure
is just a lot of fun.”
—
The Mystery Reader
“A charming, funny, and quirky mystery starring a suppressed widow and a stimulating ghost . . . He is hard- boiled in the tra
dition of Philip Marlowe, and she is a genteel Miss Marple; yet the two opposites make an explosive combination. Alice Kimberly definitely has a hit series if the first book is anything to go by.”
—
Midwest Book Reviews
“[The] enigmatic townspeople come alive in this quirky mystery, and readers will eagerly anticipate future installments and the continuing easy banter and romantic tension between Jack and Penelope.”
—
Romantic Times
“What a delightful new mystery series . . . I adored the ghost of Jack... Pairing him with the disbelieving Penelope is a brilliant touch.”
—
Roundtable Reviews
“A beguiling and bewitching mystery that will enchant readers . . . Alice Kimberly is a talented storyteller.”
—
The Best Reviews
“Combining elements of cozy mysteries with detective noir, throwing in a bit of the paranormal, this is a series that will please any mystery fan.”
—
The Romance Readers Connection
“I love this series. It is such a great cozy... This is the second book in the Haunted Bookshop Mystery series, and I hope there will be many, many more.”
—
Spinetingler Magazine
“Alice Kimberly proves adept at juggling a complicated story line. Not only is Pen investigating two killings, she is also drawn into one of Jack’s cases from the forties.
The Ghost and the Dead Deb
seems like light and lighthearted reading, because the author has done a masterful job of putting it all together.”
—
BookLoons
“A fun read.”
—
Good House keeping
“In this third case in the Haunted Bookshop mysteries, author Kimberly shows a confident and deft touch... I found the mystery fascinating, and I was impressed by the way in which the author moved back and forth between Pen’s dilemma in the present and Jack’s case in the 1940s . . . All in all, this is an entertaining mystery with a quirky cast of characters and an ingenious premise.”
—
BookLoons
“I love this series. Pen and Jack are such likeable characters... The bookstore setting is so natural and so is the fact that Pen gets involved in unraveling the mystery. I highly recommend this book and the complete series.”
—
Spinetingler Magazine
“
What I so enjoy about Alice Kimberly’s Haunted Bookshop series is the author’s ability to weave together elements of both cozy and hard- boiled mysteries . . .
The Ghost and the Dead Man’s Library
has it all and I suspect cozy readers will love it.”
—
The Mystery News
“Terrific.”
—
Midwest Book Review
Haunted Bookshop Mysteries by Cleo Coyle Writing as Alice Kimberly
the ghost and mrs. mcclure the ghost and the dead deb the ghost and the dead man’s library the ghost and the femme fatale
Coffee house Mysteries by Cleo Coyle
on what grounds through the grinder latte trouble murder most frothy
decaffeinated corpse
T
o read more about the Haunted Bookshop Mysteries or learn about the Coffee house Mysteries visit Cleo Coyle’s virtual coffee house at www .CoffeehouseMystery .com
AND THE
g
ALICE KIMBERLY
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, En gland Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, En gland
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
THE GHOST AND THE FEMME FATALE
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the authors
Copyright © 2008 by The Berkley Publishing Group.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form with
out permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorized editions. For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 1-4362-1667-2
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
To the noir filmmakers of the ’40s and ’50s
for the remarkable art they left behind.
AC KNO W LEDG MENTS
Sincerest thanks to Wendy McCurdy, executive editor, and John Talbot, literary agent. Like Jack, they are entities unseen, yet absolutely vital to the existence of this book.
A U THOR’S NOTE
Although real places and institutions are mentioned in this book, they are used in the ser vice of fiction. No character in this book is based on any person, liv
ing or dead, and the world presented is completely fictitious.
CONTENTS
1
231
But that was life . . . light and shade . . . a coming in of the tide and a going out . . .
—The Ghost and Mrs. Muir
by R. A. Dick
(a.k.a. Josephine Aimée Campbell Leslie)
I don’t mind a reasonable amount of trouble.
—
Sam Spade,
The Maltese Falcon,
1941
The Empire Theater 42nd Street, Manhattan April 16, 1948
THE SPRING EVE NING
was cool, the 950- seat movie house was packed, and Jack Shepard was on the job, watching a too-young chippy enjoy a night at the pictures with her paramour.
The doll was no raving beauty, more like the girl next door, with a pert face and dimpled chin, mustard yellow dress with a cutesy lace collar, curls the color of Cracker Jack, and young— seventeen, eigh teen, if that.
Planted next to her was the sugar daddy: thinning brown hair, Errol Flynn mustache, face like a flushed baseball. Not fat, but a torso plump enough to annoy the buttons of his three-piece suit. Hired cars and steak dinners every night would do that to an Alvin, not to mention downing case after case of prime tonsil paint.
It was the sugar daddy’s wife who’d hired Jack for this tail. Just a few days earlier she’d invited him up to her East Side pent house . . .
***
“
I’VE SUSPECTED NATHAN
of stepping out on me before,”
the wife said, “but he always denies it . . .”
“And now?” Jack asked.
“And now I’ve finally made the decision. I want out of this marriage, and I need help proving his infidelity.”
Jack had taken dozens of cases like this, with one exception: None of the cheating Charlies had been anywhere near as powerful as Nathan Burwell. Building a case against the District Attorney for the City of New York wouldn’t be any private investigator’s first choice of assignments. Jack would have preferred taking drags off a lit stick of dynamite.
“I wonder, Mrs. Burwell, how many private dicks did you try hiring before me?”
“Twelve,” said the DA’s wife. She lifted her porcelain cigarette holder—a favorite relic of an aging flapper—inhaled deeply, and blew a smoke ring. “You’re lucky thirteen.”
Jack already knew he was pretty far down the food chain, not that his office didn’t have a charming view of the Third Avenue El. Maybe he was crazy for even considering taking the case, but his current list of clients had more than its share of deadbeats, his rent was coming due, and Mrs. Nathan Burwell was offering three times his usual rate. For that kind of lettuce, Jack figured even a turtle would consider sticking his neck out.
Besides, reasoned Jack, he’d never had any great affection for the DA. The man’s greasy thumbprints were all over the dismissal of charges against a Fifth Avenue brat accused of sexually assaulting a young waitress in an alley during a night of carousing. “Not enough evidence,” old Burwell had claimed. ’Course the young man’s daddy also happened to be one of the state’s biggest contributors to the DA’s po liti cal party.
Yeah
, thought Jack,
putting the screws to ol’ Burwell wouldn’t exactly be torture.
“All right, Mrs. Burwell. Guess thirteen’s your lucky number.”
“Good.” She blew another gray, hazy ring. “Nathan doesn’t want a divorce, you see.”
“Because ...?”
“When I met him, he was a struggling lawyer. It was my inheritance that kept us living high, got him where he is now, and I intend to take it with me—the fortune, I mean. He knows
it, and he’s in a powerful position to oppose me.”
“So you need evidence to get out. I see.”
“Not that I want any of it to be made public, you understand? I just want Nathan to be made to see that it’s in his best interest to let me, and my twin daughters, and my money go. And—”
“And that’s where I come in. I get you, Mrs. Burwell.”
LESS THAN A
week later, Jack was tailing Nathan Burwell and his chippy to Forty- second Street and taking a seat behind them in the packed Empire Theater. With nothing much to spy on but two heads watching a movie, Jack glanced up to do the same.
Black- and- white B pictures like
Wron
g Turn
were a dime a dozen, made on the cheap and frustrating to watch. There was always a rube taken in and destroyed by some too- slick dame. Jack expected no less from this lengthy roll of lamplit celluloid. In fact, he was set to be bored stiff—but then something interesting happened.
As the treacly music pulsed and swelled, a real knockout entered the picture. Hedda Geist, the female lead, raced forward onto a deserted road, waving at a passing car.
“Stop, please!” she called.
The actress was young and beautiful, with waves of gold flowing over shoulders as creamy smooth as a marble statuette. She looked scared and vulnerable running along in bare feet, wearing a silver gown that cut like moonlight through the eve
ning mist. The garment was ripped at the shoulder and she held it up with one hand while waving at the car with the other.
Behind the wheel was some regular Joe, on his way home from a long day of lousy sales calls. One look at Hedda and his tires were squealing.
Don’t do it, buddy
. Jack thought.
I’ve seen enough of these pictures to know where she’s going to take you...
In the next row, the DA’s young paramour began bouncing up and down in her seat, obviously excited about the appearance of Hedda Geist on screen. She pointed and whispered to Burwell, pantomimed a clapping of her white- gloved hands.
The picture played out much as Jack expected, and he watched the two couples—the one on the screen; the other in the audience. Eventually, the credits rolled and then the A picture played: a sappy romance with songs, no less, a real snoozola. Then Jack’s payday got up with the crowd and vacated their chairs. Jack tailed the two, careful to keep his distance.
The DA and his date strolled down Forty- second Street’s crowded carnival of noisy marquees and greasy eateries, legit theaters, and burlesque houses—exactly the direction Jack figured on—toward Hotel Chester, the quiet inn near Bryant Park where Burwell had seen the girl a few nights before.
Just before crossing the intersection of Broadway and Seventh Avenue, with its railed streetcars and blinding billboards, they approached a concession booth. photos while u wait! take a picture with your date!
Jack moved carefully ahead of the DA and his mistress, signaled the photographer that he’d paid earlier in the eve ning. The photographer nodded and pulled out his assistant, made like he was taking her picture on the Times Square sidewalk, but as the flash lit up the DA and his chippy, the focus was on them. Now Jack would have a picture for the Mrs. B. file.
More evidence.
Jack trailed the couple to the Chester. Burwell followed Miss Innocent inside, and Jack loitered outside. As the minutes ticked by, Jack surveyed his surroundings, noticed a gull gray Lincoln Cabriolet idling in the shadows across from the hotel. He couldn’t see much inside the car, just a male driver and a woman in a wide- brimmed hat. He waited for someone to exit the vehicle, but no one did. No one entered, either. They just sat there, burning gasoline.
After another five minutes, Jack became suspicious. There were a few other sedans parked, all empty. At this time of night, there were plenty of people having a gay old time two long blocks away in Times Square, but this part of Midtown was deserted. The office buildings were emptied out. Corner newsstands were closed up. And you’d have to hoof it at least ten blocks to find an open diner.
Jack began to cross the street; approach the idling car. Just as he did, the driver peeled away, sped toward the corner, didn’t even stop for the red light. Jack glommed the license, jotted down the numbers in his notebook, noted the wheels were spode green, and went back to waiting.
Twenty minutes later, the district attorney emerged from the hotel again; hair mussed, tie askew.
“Not exactly a sixty- minute man,” Jack muttered.
He wasn’t surprised at the brevity of the encounter. For some of these slobs, their marriages had grown so cold that just being in a hotel room with a chippy was enough. A blouse was unbuttoned, a lacy brassiere peeked through, then it was wham-bam, Act Three, and curtain.
Burwell walked to the corner, hailed a cab on Sixth Avenue. Jack flagged down another and followed Burwell east to Park then north to the Upper East Side, land of cliff dwellers.
One of the grandest avenues in Manhattan, Park was bisected by an island of lush topiary, its sidewalks cleaner than a hospital ward. The hack coasted to a stop in front of one of the endless rows of majestic stone high- rises. The place wasn’t as big as Buckingham Palace, but it probably held more servants. A doorman in a uniform stepped forward, opened the cab’s door. The DA greeted the gold- trimmed attendant, moved out of the shadowy street, into the light of the building’s lobby.
Jack made a note of the time. He was about to give the signal to his own cabbie to beat it when he noticed a familiar lady turning the corner. It was Mrs. Burwell, strolling alone down the avenue, a white stole glowing like a fur lifesaver around her neck. She smiled and nodded at a passing couple, approached her doorman, had a few quiet words with him, then ventured inside.
Jack recalled Mrs. B. telling him about her weekly Junior League dinner meetings. The DA obviously made interesting use of his eve nings when his wife was occupied. Like clockwork, he’d had it all timed perfectly, making it home just before the little woman.
But Jack was on the job now. And once he got that flash picture in his hands, Mrs. Burwell would no longer be in the dark.
“Dust out, buddy,” he called, then told the hack to take him back where he belonged. “Downtown.”
CHAPTER 1