The Ghost and the Femme Fatale (8 page)

That’s life. Whichever way you turn, fate sticks out a foot

to trip you.

—Detour,
1945

AT SOME POINT
during the investigation, Chief Ciders’s size- twelve boots tramped through Dr. Lilly’s blood. Now everywhere the chief walked his heels left faint, half- moon-shaped trails on the polished, hardwood floor. Objectively, I knew they were just little brownish prints, but whenever I saw those tracks I wanted to scream.

Behind the store’s counter, Aunt Sadie blew her nose. “What a terrible, terrible accident.”

“At least it was quick,” Seymour said, attempting to console her—while simultaneously browsing our New Release table. “It was probably, just, you know. Lights out! Like that final episode of
The Sopranos
.”

Sadie glanced toward the archway leading to the Community Events room and her expression darkened. “They’ve been in there for over an hour,” she said softly. “What are they doing? What are they waiting for?”

For Chief Donut to get a clue, maybe,
said Jack, who never was in awe of Chief Ciders’s investigative prowess.
And if that’s the case, it’s going to be a long wait.

Officer Franzetti stood near the front door, where the chief had posted him. Overhearing Sadie’s question, he cleared his throat. “Actually, Ms. Thornton, I think the chief is waiting for a doctor to get here—a new guy, some expert from Newport named Rubino.”

Any warm body would be an improvement over that lamebrain with a badge.

“Easy, Jack,” I silently told the ghost.

Dismount off that high horse already, doll. I know for a fact you feel the same way about Ciders.

“The chief means well, Jack.”

He threw you in the town jail last year!

“But only for one night—and it was all cleared up the next day.”

Sadie blew her nose again. “Who is this doctor, Eddie?”

Officer Franzetti shrugged. “I don’t know much. Only what I heard from Bull.”

Seymour frowned. “Bull McCoy? He’s in there with the chief? How did I miss that no- neck’s grand entrance?”

“He came in when you were fetching your mailbag from the trunk of Penelope’s car,” Sadie informed him.

Seymour faced Eddie. “Then riddle me this, Batman- zetti. How is it that Bull is in
there
, analyzing the crime scene, and you’re out here?”

“Bull is, uh...” Eddie cleared his throat again. “He’s the chief’s nephew.”

“I recall that!” Seymour threw up his hands. “I also remember that lousy sucker punch he gave me last year when I tried to stop him from hauling Pen off to the hoosegow—but he’s still a rookie! Not to mention a moron! What’s the chief thinking using an experienced se nior officer as a doorman?!”

Eddie folded his arms tightly but kept silent. Between Councilwoman Binder-Smith ordering him around like some lackey, and now Seymour tactlessly pointing out an embarrassing slight, Eddie was obviously having a horrific day.

Not as horrific as Dr. Lilly,
Jack pointed out.

“True,” I told the ghost, “but Eddie’s my friend. It’s time to change the subject of this conversation.” I turned toward the front door, where Eddie was still standing.

“Eddie, you were telling us about Dr. Rubino?”

He nodded. “He’s some hotshot Newport doctor. A couple of years ago, he did part- time work for the State Medical Examiner’s Office. Last month he was recruited by Ciders to act as the local medical examiner on an as- needed basis. I understand he’s doing that for other townships—anywhere the local police don’t need to call in the Staties.”

“Sounds like the chief is thinking ahead,” Sadie observed.

Yeah,
Jack said.
If this new guy is jake, maybe he can talk cabbage with the Keystone Cops in this cornpone community. Or maybe the doc can pull a Dr. Frankenstein and put a brain into Chief Cipher’s thick skull
—
one that actually works.

“Jack, you’re not being helpful. And it’s Ciders, not Cipher.”

The man’s a cipher to me. And I’ll tell you who better be helpful: this new “expert” doctor. If he doesn’t rule this crime scene hinky, he’ll be batting as lousy as Chief Louie Lunkhead.

“Because?” I silently asked.

Because of last night, baby. You were there. You saw the “accident” at the theater. That’s why I know this is all smoke and mirrors. A slick Houdini act meant to dazzle a dunce
—
in this case, Chief Smalltown and Deputy Dullard.

“Oh, my god, Jack... last night ...”

All morning, I’d been assuming that if anyone was the target of that “accidental” falling speaker it was Hedda Geist. But with Dr. Lilly dead, I realized Jack was right.

“Hedda wasn’t scheduled to make a speech at the Movie Town Theater last night. Dr. Lilly should have been standing on ground zero when the boom dropped!”

Do you remember what your Buddy Boy Mr. Hardware said? He hung that speaker himself. And he thinks somebody rigged a metal strut to break with a small explosion.

“You’re right. And if the explosive was on a timer, then Irene Lilly should have been under it, not Hedda. Oh, god, Jack, if I could have figured that out sooner, I might have saved Dr. Lilly’s life!”

Easy, baby
.
Don’
t go taking on guilt you don’t deserve. You’ve done that enough already.

“What are you talking about?”

That lousy husband of yours, the one who decided kissing New York concrete was a better solution to his problems than acting like a man and sticking by his wife and son.

“Don’t bring Calvin up now, Jack. I can’t handle it.”

There’s one truth in life, baby: If someone wants to kill somebody else
—
or themselves, like your coward of a husband
—
they’re going to do it. Doesn’t matter what you, the law, or anyone else says or does. Half the time, killers don’t even care if they get caught. They just want to pull the curtain on someone so much they think it’s worth throwing their own life away. So believe me, because I’m leveling with you. You weren’t the one who killed Dr. Lilly.

“But—”

The scheme failed last night, so the killer staged accident number two in your store. It’s clear as day to me.

“But who did this? And why?” I paced the bookstore’s aisle, passing McBain and McCrumb, Paretsky and Poe. “Is the killing over now? Or just getting started?”

Listen, baby, you can’t solve a puzzle when half the pieces are missing.

“People guess at half- solved puzzles all the time,” I pointed out. “What about
Wheel of Fortune
? You can buy a vowel and sound out the words. You don’t need all the pieces.”

That’s a game show, dollface. Guessing’s fine when you’re playing for Cracker Jack prizes, not when you’re dealing out life and death
—
and believe me, I’m the voice of experience.

“Wait a second, Jack! Can’t you... I don’t know,
commune
with the spirit world? Maybe get in touch with Dr. Lilly? Ask her what happened when she was alone in the store?”

Sorry, baby, but this tomb’s all mine. Unless you take me places, I’m a prisoner in this glorified library. And as far as “communing” with my fellow dead, nobody’s ever stuck around here to tell me squat. I wish I could call up some company, doll. I can think of a few hot skirts from my past I wouldn’t mind looking up.

“And are you sure you don’t have any idea what happened in the store while I was out on the sidewalk?”

I’m a ghost, baby, not a magician. My awareness can’t be more than one place at one time. When Dr. Lilly bought it in this store, I was with you
—
in that bakery, in Buddy Boy’s van, then out on the sidewalk with the Ticket Issuing Witch of Cornpone County.

I sighed, slumping back against our complete collection of Robert B. Parker. “We don’t even know why Dr. Lilly was singled out.”

But we can assume a few things . . . like it’s a pretty good bet the killer wasn’t connected to her life back in California. Punching her ticket on the West Coast would have been a heck of a lot easier than what took place last night. There’s also a possibility that a certified crazy is on the loose at this film festival. Maybe all of this weekend’s special guests are in danger. Maybe the entire festival crowd.

“Someone’s got to help us figure this out, Jack. I’d better talk it over with the chief....”

The chief?
Jack snorted.
That piker’s not going to listen to you. I doubt he’ll even rule this a hom i cide. And unless the medical man on his way is Dr. Watson, we’re on our own proving a clean sneak bump- off.

The front door rattled. Someone had knocked instead of pressing our doorbell. Officer Franzetti peered through the window.

“He’s here,” Eddie announced, unlocking the door.

A fit man in his forties squeezed through the crowd of people that had gathered in front of my store. He wore rumpled khakis, a lime- green alligator shirt, collar wrinkled and unbuttoned. Over his arm, he carried a bright yellow J. Crew Windbreaker, which seemed unnecessary, considering the weather report’s forecast high for today was in the seventies.

Someone tried to follow the newcomer over the threshold, but Eddie slammed the door in the customer’s startled face.

Our visitor ran a hand through his thick, dark brown hair. He had a squarish face with a Roman nose, prominent chin, and large brown eyes. On first impression, he seemed intelligent and attractive.

“Quite a mess out there,” he said with a friendly smile.

“Good you got here, doc,” said Eddie. “The chief’s been waiting.”

“I came from Newport as soon as I got the call . . . it’s Officer Franchese, isn’t it?”

“Franzetti.”

“Anyway, the traffic was murder. Did you know there’s some kind of film festival going on? The whole town’s full of tourists . . .”

The man suddenly caught sight of me and his deep voice trailed off. Then he noticed Sadie behind the counter and Seymour slumped in one of our Shaker- style rockers.

“Excuse me for being rude,” he said smoothly, his big, sleepy brown eyes returning to mine.

“This is Mrs. McClure,” Eddie said.

“Penelope,” I volunteered.

“She owns this store—”

“With my aunt Sadie,” I interjected.

The man’s smile seemed genuine. He was tanned and athletic—not quite as handsome as Robert Mitchum playing the leading- man doctor in
Where Danger Lives
, but very close.

Randall Rubino stood a few inches taller than I, but he was probably even taller. I was wearing low heels, while the doctor wore scuffed boat shoes with flat rubber soles. He was also carrying a large beige canvas backpack over his shoulder. Was his medical kit in there? I wondered.

He stepped forward, extended his tanned right hand. “My name is—”

“Dr. Rubino,” Chief Ciders’s voice boomed from the archway. “Your ser vices are required back here immediately.”

“Right, Chief Ciders. On my way,” Rubino replied. He shook my hand and offered a wink to go along with it. I couldn’t help but breathe a little easier—and I couldn’t fault Dr. Rubino’s bedside manner, either.

Sadie noticed the wink, too. She quickly sidled up to me. “Dr. Rubino seems quite nice, don’t you think?”

What a stuffed monkey
, Jack scoffed.
This guy’s got Ivy League written all over him, which means you won’t be able to tell him a thing. He’ll already know it all.

Ignoring Jack, I watched Dr. Rubino cross the sales floor on his way to the Community Events space.

“I’m sure he’s married,” I quietly told Sadie.

Inside of ten seconds, Sadie was beside Eddie whispering questions. Finally, she came back to me.

“Eddie says he’s divorced,” she confided, “and that’s why he’s doing this work for Ciders—and any other townships in the area that need his ser vices. Apparently he used to have a lot of money; now he has a lot less, but who cares about that? I think he’s quite a catch.”

Go for it, Betty Boop. See if I care.

“Stop it! I’m not interested!”

Sadie frowned and I realized I’d said those words aloud.

“Well, you don’t have to decide right now,” Sadie replied with a huff. “Give the man a chance to ask you out for coffee!”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “I’m sorry, Aunt Sadie, I didn’t intend to say that to you.”

“It’s all right, dear,” she said, patting my shoulder. “We’re all a little rattled by Dr. Lilly’s fall.”

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. Sadie rearranged books on the film noir display. I moved to the window and watched the crowd thicken outside. The store’s opening hour came and went without anyone emerging from the Events room. I wondered if Buy the Book was going to open at all today—though that was probably the least of our worries at this point.

Suddenly Seymour pushed himself out of the wooden rocker. “That’s it! I’m out of here,” he declared, checking his Wonder Woman watch. “It’s after ten, and I’ve waited long enough for Chief Ciders to take my statement. If Barney Fife needs to reach me, he knows where I’ll be—working my route, ’cause the mail is like showbiz. It must go on!”

Officer Franzetti stepped forward. “The chief told me everyone stays here until he takes your statements.”

“The chief is a local yokel, Pizza Boy,” Seymour shot back. “His authority stretches about as far as Quindicott Pond. The federal government’s interest in an efficient mail ser vice supersedes his meager jurisdiction.”

Eddie put his hands on his gun belt. “Cut the double talk, Seymour. You’re not going anywhere, no matter what you say—”

Seymour flushed crimson. “Listen, Franzetti! Step out of the way and you won’t get hurt—”

“All right, all right, what’s going on here?” Chief Ciders barked. He tramped into the store with Dr. Rubino and young Bull McCoy in tow.

Yep,
quipped Jack.
McCoy is Chief Donut’s nephew all right. Same sloped brow and slack jaw. Same funny- farm stare, too
.

“Look, Chief, I’ve got a job to do, too,” Seymour complained. “Either detain me or let me get back to it.”

Ciders nodded to Eddie. “Let the man go. Tarnish has mail to mis- deliver. I’ll get his statement later, for what it’s worth.”