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 (17 page)
And if Pierce got wind of that new book of Lilly’s,
Murdered in Plain Sight,
he might have figured that out. And he might not have been too happy.
“So Pierce could be the one who killed Dr. Lilly, or
had
her killed, and her tapes stolen...”
It’s a possibility. And although I’m no fan of Queen Hedda the Diva, I have to tell you, Pierce has the strongest motive for offing her next. Hedda was the one who put the nail in his coffin by testifying against him, right?
Suddenly Seymour cried out. “Hey, in here! Come quick. You’ve got to see this!”
Brainert, Maggie, and I immediately dashed off in the direction of Seymour’s call. We raced down a hallway filled with more film memorabilia and found him in the house’s large dining room. The space was dominated by a huge tropical fish tank.
“Check it out,” Seymour said, pointing above the tank.
I followed his gaze, hoping for some sort of clue about Pierce from the Fisherman Detective series, but the framed one- sheet on the wall featured another actor, from an entirely different de cade. Three action- packed images were punctuated by a blurb that read “Look up! Look down! Look out! Here comes the biggest Bond of them all!”
“This is an original Robert McGinnis poster for
Thunder-ball
!” Seymour exclaimed. “There’s Sean Connery with the famous jet pack on top; beneath that he’s battling thugs under water. At the bottom, he’s surrounded by the signature Robert McGinnis babes.”
“Who’s Robert McGinnis?” Brainert asked.
“Who’s Robert McGinnis?” cried Seymour in outrage. “Only one of the greatest illustrators of the 1960s. Not only did he paint a slew of James Bond posters, McGinnis also did the poster art for
Barbarella
and practically all the paperback covers for the Mike Shayne mysteries.”
“Mike who?” Brainert asked.
“Mike
Shayne
,” I replied. All eyes turned toward me. I shrugged. “Shayne was the star of those old hard- boiled detective novels written by Brett Halliday. Aunt Sadie knows the rare book market, and she always said it was the cover art that made them collectable.”
“And look at this!” Seymour exclaimed, pointing to a narrow sideboard.
In my experience, dining room sideboards were used to display soup tureens and crystal vases. But this narrow cabinet of polished mahogany was completely dedicated to displaying what looked like a strange- looking long- barreled weapon.
“What is that?” I asked, not quite trusting my eyes.
“It’s an original speargun prop from the
Thunderball
movie!”
Seymour’s eyes were bugging. He carefully lifted it off the metal display stand. “Wow, it’s heavy, too. Must be at least seven pounds.”
He aimed it at the fish tank.
“Man, think of it: one of Largo’s men actually pointed this spear gun at James Bond in the big underwater battle, just like this!”
“And who is Largo?” Brainert sniffed.
“
Emilio
Largo was Bond’s arch- villain in
Thunderball
! Sheesh! Don’t you know anything, Brainert?!”
“I know
other
things, Seymour.
Impor
tant
things.”
“Right, like how many biblical references Melville packed into
Moby Dic
k
? Five hundred and twenty- four was my last count. Or what year Franz Kafka first published a novella about a traveling salesman who turns into a giant cockroach? Nineteen- fifteen.”
“What are you driving at, mailman?”
“Trivia by any other name is still trivia.”
Brainert threw up his hands. “So that’s why you called us back here? To impugn higher education while you play with a movie prop?”
“I wanted you to see the
Thunderball
poster! It’s got legendary art on it. I thought even an egghead like you could appreciate it. Apparently not.”
Brainert exhaled in exasperation. “I don’t even know why Wendell
has
a James Bond poster and speargun prop, and in his dining room of all places.” His nose wrinkled. “It’s in bad taste!”
Brainert and Seymour were still arguing as we walked out of the dining room and back into the hallway. While we strolled toward the living room, I took a closer look at the memorabilia that we’d raced past on our way to Seymour.
There were more posters as well as props and pieces of costuming either framed or in glass cases. I noticed a one- sheet and lobby cards hanging near an arched alcove and stopped dead. A familiar face was staring back. The actress in the picture was very young and no raving beauty—more like the girl next door with caramel- colored curls and a dimple in her chin.
“My god,” I cried aloud. “That’s—”
It’s her, doll! District Attorney Nathan Burwell’s paramour. The chippy from the Hotel Chester!
“Ah,” Maggie said, obviously responding to my outburst. “You’re admiring the restored one- sheet for
Man Trap
.”
“Oh, uh... y-yes,” I stammered.
“It’s really something,” Maggie continued. “There’s only one more like it in the whole world. That one resides at San Fernando University’s film history archive . . .”
As Maggie talked, I pretended to examine the
Man T
rap
one- sheet, but I was really checking out the scene on one of the eight surrounding lobby cards. The face on the scantily clad girl standing next to Sybil Sand was unmistakable. It was the same girl I’d seen in my dream of Jack’s past, the girl at the Porterhouse with Nathan Burwell.
“Who’s this actress?” I asked aloud.
Seymour stepped closer. “I think she’s in the nightclub scenes in that movie. Yeah, a cigarette girl with a few lines. She speaks to Hedda Geist, and then another actor makes a comment about how the girl’s way too young to be working in a place like that. Never saw the actress before or since. Just some extra, I guess.”
“Hey, look at this,” Brainert said, pointing to a yellowing booklet resting inside a glass case. “This is an original souvenir program for
Man Trap
.”
“It’s unusual to have one for a film like this,” Maggie said. “But the studio wanted to promote Hedda—”
The doorbell buzzed, interrupting her. Maggie excused herself and headed for the foyer.
“Quick,” I hissed when the woman was out of earshot. “Open the case and let me see that booklet.”
Brainert’s eyes widened in horror. “What!”
“Open that case,” I insisted. “Even if you have to break it open.”
Seymour reached out a hand and lifted the lid. “Relax, it’s unlocked.”
I gently removed the crumbling press book from its display case and carefully turned the brittle pages. The complete cast list was on the third page.
“Cigarette Girl played by Wilma Brody,” I read aloud.
Seymour blinked. “So what?”
“I concur,” Brainert said. “Who is this Wilma Brody and why should we care?”
Before I could make up an explanation, we were interrupted by a woman’s voice, shrill with anger. Maggie’s reply came in a reasonable but icy tone.
“Oh God,” Brainert said, cringing. “It’s Virginia . . . the former Mrs. Wendell Pepper.”
I placed the press book back into its case and closed the lid. In the living room, the voices became louder.
“I think we’d better do something,” Brainert said. “It’s turning into an argument.”
Seymour backed away, palms high, head shaking. “Count me out. Ex- wives scare the crap out of me.”
“All right,” Brainert said. Squaring his shoulders, he led the way to the living room. I followed, Seymour brought up the rear.
“I’m looking for Wendell,” cried the shrill voice from the living room. “Not his latest mistress!”
“I’m nobody’s mistress, Mrs. Pepper,” Maggie civilly replied, “and I told you, Wendell is not here. Try calling him at—”
“I’ve
tried
calling him, dozens of times! He’s ducking me, the worm, but I won’t tolerate—”
Virginia Pepper looked up when we entered the living room. The ex- wife of the St. Francis dean was tall and willowy with a long, slender neck. Her blonde hair was pulled back tightly, exposing a great deal of Botoxed forehead. Her eyebrows appeared to slant demonically when she spied Brainert, Seymour, and me. Then her gaze began to bounce back and forth among all of us, as if she were trying to decide who to target first.
“Hello, Virginia,” said Brainert, boldly stepping into the line of fire.
My gay, academic friend may have had a physique like Ichabod Crane’s, but he had the heart of a Round Table knight, always willing to withstand slings and arrows for his friends.
The woman’s predatory eyes narrowed. “Busybody Brainert,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “Showing gawkers around this mausoleum, are you?”
Brainert’s eyes narrowed. “No need to be rude, Virginia. I really don’t think—”
“I recognize
her
,” said Virginia, moving on to me. “You’re that shop keep er, the woman who runs that bookstore with her old aunt on Cranberry Street. My friend the councilwoman’s mentioned you.”
“Councilwoman?” I said. “Which one? You don’t mean Marjorie Binder- Smith?”
“Yes, of course. There are
othe
r
women on the council, of course, but
she’s
the only one with any vision in this backward little town. She says you’re a real troublemaker. Probably stupid, too, if you’re involved with my ex- husband.”
Cripes, this dame’s one annoying harridan. No wonder ol’ Wendell’s not returning her calls. Who’d want to talk to a broad with a stick up her
—
“Stop being a bitch, Virginia,” Brainert snapped, stepping even farther forward. “Just tell me what you need from Wendell, without the insults.”
“A check!” she cried, veins flashing blue in her pale neck.
I cringed, stepping back in an autonomic response. This was the first time I’d met the woman, but her barely contained neurosis reminded me too much of my wealthy, pill- popping, perpetually dissatisfied in- laws, the ones Calvin had looked to for providing a functional foundation in life.
And look how well that worked out for him.
“Oh, God, Jack.”
You want me to handle this, baby?
“No. Let her go.”
Okay.
Jack snorted.
If you s
ay so.
Virginia stomped her foot. “Wendell promised he’d help with our son’s graduation party! Now June’s almost here, and I haven’t seen a cent! He keeps crying poverty, but just look at all this junk he’s put around the house! Maybe I should just come in here one day, take a few things, and sell them on eBay. Then I’ll have my money!”
“I’m sure it’s an oversight,” Brainert calmly replied. “Wendell’s very proud of his son. He’s mentioned setting up a generous trust fund for him. I’m sure he means to give you the money for the party. It’s just that he’s been busy with the theater opening and the festival—”
“That theater. That damn theater!” Virginia sneered. “I wouldn’t be sorry to see it burn down.”
For a moment, you could hear a pin drop. Then Maggie Kline stepped forward.
“You’ve gotten your answer, Mrs. Pepper,” she said. “Wendell’s not here, and frankly, we have things to do, so I’ll show you to the door.”
Virginia purpled. “I used to live here,” she cried with a toss of her head. “I know where the front door is.”
Maggie’s eyes locked with hers. “Then use it.”
With a huff, Virginia Pepper whirled on her flats and strode to the exit. All of a sudden she stumbled, awkwardly careening right into the closed door, her Botoxed forehead hitting the wood with a sharp thump. With a string of curses that would have made the Fisherman Detective blush, she opened it, stormed out, and slammed the door behind her.
Oops
, said Jack.
Guess there was a wrinkle in the carpet that wasn’t there before.
“Jack! What did you do?”
I let her go, like you asked, doll. Right into the front door.
“Well, that was pleasant,” Maggie said, her eyes dancing with amusement.
“Now you see why I’m a bachelor,” Seymour said.
Maggie glanced at her wristwatch and faced Brainert. “Could you give me a lift to the Movie Town? It’s a nice walk, but I’m running late.”
“Of course,” Brainert replied. “Are you rushing to catch a film?”
“No,” she said, with a raised eyebrow. “I want to be there for Hedda Geist’s appearance. It’s scheduled right after Pierce Armstrong’s. If she arrives on time, the two of them will finally meet after all these years. Now
that
would be something worth seeing, don’t you agree?”
We all did agree. And as Maggie ran around, looking for her keys and handbag, I moved toward the house’s vestibule. With the front door closed, I noticed an alcove off the entryway that I hadn’t seen on our way in. It was the sort of recessed niche where a homeowner would typically display an antique grand father clock. But there was no clock here.
A thin, rectangular glass case the height of a coffin occupied the space. Inside it hung a full- length eve ning gown, clearly a preserved piece of wardrobe. I moved closer, my eyes widening, as I realized the dress was made of shimmering silver satin. It had a plunging neckline and a tiny bow at the bodice.
“Jack, I can’t believe it,” I whispered. “It’s the silver gown from
Wrong Turn
, the one that wasn’t ripped at the shoulder!”
The one that turned up on Wilma Brody the night Irving Vreen was stabbed to death. Yeah, baby, I can see that. I just have one question.
“You don’t have to tell me, Jack. I have the same question.”
Good. Then maybe you can ask Wendell Pepper where the hell he found Hedda Geist’s missing gown.
CHAPTER 15
I killed him for money and for a woman. I didn’t get the
money. And I didn’t get the woman.
—Double Indemnity,
1944
AN EXPLOSION OF
laughter followed by a burst of applause greeted our ears the moment we entered the lobby of the Movie Town Theater. The noise came from inside the auditorium, where Pierce Armstrong was speaking to a boisterous crowd of loyal fans.
Brainert’s grin stretched from one ear to the other. “Sounds like a packed house,” he crowed.
“Sounds like Pierce Armstrong is on stage right now,” Seymour cried, racing ahead of us.
Maggie Kline laughed. “That guy is really into the Fisherman Detective thing.”
“Seymour is a particularly odd individual,” Brainert muttered.
Maggie smiled. “In Hollywood, he’d fit right in.”
“Mr. Parker! Mr. Parker, sir . . .” A tall young man was waving Brainert over to the concession stand. He wore a white cap and white shirt with movie town theater emblazoned across the pocket in bold red letters.
Brainert frowned. “Excuse me. Our head of concessions is calling me. I’m afraid I have some important managerial business to attend to.”
“Thank goodness you’re here, Professor Parker,” the young man called, “we’re almost out of Raisinets again!”
Brainert glanced unhappily at me. “I’ll join you shortly.”
As he headed to the stand, Maggie and I followed Seymour into the crowded auditorium. On the way I glanced at the gold-framed bulletin board, where the day’s schedule of events was posted.
Hedda Geist had appeared on stage earlier in the day for a Q&A with Barry Yello. She was due to speak again in less than fifteen minutes, providing a short personal introduction to
Tight Spot
, another of her Gotham Features films.
Another ripple of laughter from the auditorium told me that Pierce Armstrong was still going strong. He would most likely be on stage when Hedda arrived, so it appeared the two former lovers were indeed about to meet face- to- face for the first time in sixty years.
“Hurry,” Seymour called. “I can’t wait to see this.”
Me either
, I thought.
We entered the theater during a lengthy question from a middle- aged man, who’d stood up from the second row to deliver it. On stage, the el der ly Pierce Armstrong sat behind a table spread with a white cloth. His features were hidden behind oversized copper-framed glasses and his hair was white and rather long, ending in ringlets that rested on the shoulders of his red patterned shirt. The shirts collar was buttoned up and encircled by a bolo- style Western tie.
The fan’s rambling question finally ended—something about location shooting. Pierce leaned forward toward the microphone, adjusted his large copper glasses, and raised a pale hand.
“We almost never went out on the ocean,” he began in a strong voice. “The first time we did was for
O’Bannon Against the Bund
, where we worked off the coast of Fire Island. On the first take of my fight with Ramon Lassiter, I fell off the boat and actually had to be rescued! Can you believe it? After that . . .”
Gales of laughter drowned out the rest of his story.
“Hey, I was a cowboy, not a sailor!” Armstrong cried with agrin.
We finally found seats in the rear of the theater, but not together. Seymour sat in one row. Maggie and I behind him, right on the center aisle.
I noticed Dr. Wendell Pepper sitting beside the old man on stage. The sixtysomething dean was looking relaxed and attractive, his thick salt- and- pepper hair was casually finger-combed to the side, his white dress shirt was open at the collar, and his casual, chestnut brown sports jacket hung loosely off his broad- shouldered form.
“All of the Fisherman Detective screenplays centered around crime on the docks, and we mostly used locations near our studio’s offices in Long Island City, Queens,” Pierce Armstrong continued. “We filmed at night, not to set any kind of mood. It was because those docks were damn busy in the daytime. We were only allowed access to one pier, so that’s why you keep seeing the same scenery over and over again in every movie. We needed an animal wrangler, too. Not because we used any animals. He was there to keep the stray dogs at bay!”
The audience burst out laughing again.
“Of course, we had a mock- up of the
Sea W
itch
. We used that on the sound stage at Astoria Studios, which Paramount rented out to us. The crew would rock the prop boat and toss buckets of water into the scene. Those guys really got a kick out of dousing me!”
The question- and- answer session continued for another twenty minutes. Throughout most of his pre sen ta tion, Armstrong was lively and animated. Near the end, however, he seemed to tire. Finally Dean Pepper rose and called a halt to the fun. Some folks rose out of their seats to rush the stage.
“No autographs, please,” Dr. Pepper warned. “Mr. Armstrong will be signing tomorrow. Check the schedule of events on the bulletin board for the exact time.”
After some groans of disappointment, then big applause, Pepper stepped behind Pierce Armstrong and took hold of the man’s chair. That’s when I realized the former action star and stunt man was partially confined to a wheelchair.
Beside me, Maggie sighed. “No sign of Hedda. I guess the big meeting isn’t going to happen. Not yet, anyway. I’m sure they’ll meet sometime this weekend. Excuse me, I’ve really got to use the ladies’. Do you need to?”
I shook my head. “I’ll save your seat,” I promised her.
Maggie got up and joined the crush. In the next row, Seymour stood up and stretched, then faced me. “Man, Pierce Armstrong was really funny. I couldn’t believe that story about Howard Hawks....”
As Seymour continued to chatter away, the theater partially emptied. Like Maggie, people took advantage of the break to visit the restrooms or concession stand. I spied Bud Napp in the wings: the young Dixon Gallagher was with him, and the two appeared to be tinkering with the sound system. I noticed the new speakers sat on the floor on either side of the stage. Bud was obviously determined to avoid any more falling speaker “accidents.”
Dean Pepper and a young usher started transferring Pierce Armstrong’s wheelchair from the stage to the auditorium floor. On stage, Pierce waited for them to finish, his wrinkled hands clutching the black vinyl handles of an aluminum walker.
Finally, big Barry Yello appeared. The young Webmaster with the blond ponytail walked on stage from the wings. He and Dean Pepper each took the old man’s arm and guided Pierce down the short staircase and back into his chair. Just as Dr. Pepper began to push the chair up the center aisle, Hedda Geist-Middleton entered the auditorium.
Attired for the upcoming festival party, Hedda wore a simple but elegant black cocktail dress, belted at the waist. A string of flawless pearls hung around her neck. Her silver- white hair was down, just brushing her shoulders, the ends curled into a 1940’s-style pageboy.
I saw no sign of Hedda’s granddaughter, Harmony, and the el der ly actress seemed momentarily flustered. Her haughty airs were gone, and she began to fumble inside her black clutch bag.
As Dean Pepper continued to wheel Pierce up the aisle, I held my breath while those around me—apparently oblivious to the drama about to unfold—chatted and munched popcorn. I was sorry Maggie Kline was not here to see this. She, at least, was aware of the significance of the situation.
Hedda finally closed her bag and looked up, right into the eyes of Pierce Armstrong. The shock of recognition registered on her face, and she took a step backward, mouth moving soundlessly. Pierce clutched the arms of his wheelchair and slowly pushed himself to his feet. On unsteady legs he took a single step forward.
“Hello, Hedda,” he said evenly.
Hedda’s acute anxiety appeared to vanish, as if a curtain came down—or went up—and a per for mance began.
“Pierce,” she said, her chin raised, her voice strong and confident, “so lovely to see you after all these years.”
There were no hugs, no air kisses, not even a smile. Her greeting was civil, but cold and formal. The two former lovers stood face to face for a long moment. Then Hedda broke the deadlock. Her eyes drifted away from Armstrong and over to the man standing behind the el der ly actor.
“Ah, Dr. Pepper. There you are!” she declared. “I sent my granddaughter off to find you and now she’s vanished.”
Pepper smiled. “I’m right here.”
Hedda tilted her head and forced a smile of her own. “I believe you asked me to give a little introduction before the screening of
Tight Spot
. Am I on time?”
“You are,” Dr. Pepper replied, “and I see my colleague Brainert Parker is here to escort you to the stage.”
Brainert appeared at Hedda’s side and offered the woman his arm. She took it and without another glance at Pierce, sauntered toward the stage. Pierce sat back down. As Dr. Pepper wheeled the man away, I noticed a smirk on the old actor’s face, an unmistakable look of amused triumph.
That’s what it looks like to me, too, baby.
“Well, Jack, I guess if anyone knew Hedda was acting, it would be her former leading man.”
Suddenly, someone rushed up to me. “Whew, I almost missed it!” It was Maggie Kline, acting like a kid in an amusement park. Her face was flushed, as if she’d crossed the lobby in a dead run. “The bathroom was so crowded, and then I heard someone say Hedda had arrived, and I raced back!”
“So you got a good look?”
“From the theater doors,” she said, and then shrugged. “I’m a little disappointed. I guess I was expecting more. Fireworks, explosions, something...”
Maggie’s reference to
explo
sions
suddenly cast Pierce Armstrong’s smirk in a whole new light. Tensing in my seat, I flashed back on that giant audio speaker sparking and flashing above the stage and nearly crushing the el der ly Hedda Geist, right in front of her adoring fans.
“Jack? Peirce is such an old man. You don’t think he could be a threat, do you?”
The ghost grunted.
Bac
k in ’46, a cop I used to work with went to arrest an eighty- two- year-old man for smacking his wife around. The guy didn’t shine to a buttoned- up yancy telling him what he could or couldn’t do with his little woman.
“What happened?”
Long story short, the cop was clocked twice with a ball bat before his partner iced the old fart.
“Excuse me!” I told Maggie.
“Change your mind about the ladies’?”
“No, the
man
.”
“What?”
I climbed out of my seat and hurried down the aisle to the far end of the stage, where I called to Bud in the wings. Smiling, he approached me.
“Hey, Pen. What’s up?” he asked, crouching down on one knee.
I jerked my head toward Brainert and Hedda, who were locked in conversation at the bottom of the steps that led up to the stage. Harmony had arrived, too. She looked stunning tonight—a photo negative of her grandmother in a white summer dress, a choker made of shiny black gemstones, and her blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail.
“Listen,” I said softly, “you remember what happened the last time Hedda was on stage. Have you checked this place out thoroughly?”
Bud frowned. “You don’t think—”
“Oh, but I do.”
To my relief, he didn’t question me. While I watched, he checked the curtains, walked the length of center stage while peering up, into the catwalks. He checked the microphone wires, the chairs. Bud even glanced under the tablecloth, presumably for anything that looked like an explosive device. Then he stepped behind the chairs and walked toward the staircase, using small, cautious steps while following the path Hedda would take to her seat.
Suddenly, Bud froze. He took a step backward. His head jerked in my direction, and when Bud’s eyes met mine, I knew he’d found something.
While I watched, Bud called an usher, whispered something to the teenager. The kid took off backstage, returned a moment later with an aluminum easel under his arm. He and Bud set the display up so that its tripod legs straddled the spot where Bud had paused. The usher ran off again, and returned with the sign advertising Hedda’s appearance that had stood in the lobby. He placed it on the easel.
Bud approached me, his face pale. “The trapdoor was unlocked,” he said. “I felt it give under my foot. Put more weight on it and the door would have opened right up. Anyone standing on it would have fallen through. It’s a fifteen-foot drop to a concrete floor. At Hedda’s age, a fall like that could be fatal.”
“Could this be an accident?”
Bud shook his head. “Someone had to do it. A trapdoor doesn’t unlock itself—”
“When?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, but it had to have happened recently. I’ve been back and forth across this stage for the past two hours. The door would have popped open before.”
I frowned. That spot was exactly where Pierce Armstrong had been standing while he waited for Dr. Pepper to help him down the stairs.
“Bud, do you think Pierce Armstrong was the one who unlocked that trapdoor—”
A burst of applause drowned out my words. Barry Yello had walked onto the stage to a raucous greeting. As he began his introduction of Hedda, Bud gestured for me to go find a seat. He tapped his watch and mouthed, “Later.” Then he moved to the wings.
TWO HOURS LATER,
Bud Napp was shaking his head at me. “Sorry to shoot your theory down, Pen, but there’s no way Pierce Armstrong could have set that trap for Hedda.
”
The movie had finished playing by now and the theater was clearing out. Practically everyone was heading off to the open-air block party on the Quindicott Commons—everyone but me and Bud. I was standing on the stage next to him, listening as he shot my meticulously reasoned theory all to hell.
“Are you certain Pierce couldn’t work the lock?”
“Look here,” he said, moving the aluminum easel. “On this side of the trapdoor, there are no bolts, no hinges, no screws. That stuff is underneath. Otherwise people on stage would be tripping over the hardware all the time.”
I studied the trapdoor; it certainly did look like part of the floor. I sighed. “So how does one go about unlocking it?”