The Ghost and the Femme Fatale (10 page)
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
“Fine!” Maggie Kline said. “Then zip it already and go!”
The rivalry between these two was more than obvious, but I couldn’t imagine what was behind their animosity. Barry claimed they’d never met before. Was his claim a lie? And if it was, why would he bother lying about it?
“All right, Mrs. McClure,” Maggie said after Barry left. “I’ll step in for you... for Dr. Lilly, I mean. I guess it’s the least I can do, considering you bothered to stock my books.”
“Oh, thank you! Thank you so much!”
“Really, it’s no big deal. I just had to get used to the idea. The shock of hearing about that poor woman and all . . . so where do I go for this public appearance?” She glanced around. “This is the first time I’ve been in your store, so you’ll have to show me the way.”
“Of course.” I led Maggie through the archway and into the Community Events room. “If you don’t mind my asking,” I said as we walked, “what’s the beef between you and Barry? He said he’d never met you before, but you two were talking as if you did know each other.”
“Oh, we
know
each other—over the Web. We’ve just never met in person. Yello’s taken shots at everything I’ve written— TV, movies, books. I’ve fired back with my own review of his ridiculous
Bad Barry
book. He’s an absolute jerk, in case you haven’t noticed.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I just quickened my steps to the front of the room and introduced my aunt to Maggie.
While they were talking, I thought about what Maggie had just said. Barry Yello struck me more as young and awkward than an “absolute jerk.” In her own way, Maggie herself was rather a difficult personality. On the other hand, she could have a legitimate grievance. I’d never read Barry’s reviews of her novels and teleplays. They could have been unduly vicious and personal. The World Wide Web didn’t always bring out the best in people.
You got it wrong, doll,
Jack quipped in my head.
There’s plenty of people who never had any “best” inside them to be brought out in the first place.
Jack’s voice got me to thinking again about our case. “Barry was on that stage, too, last night. He used the microphone before Dr. Lilly.”
You’re right, baby. And I know what you’re thinking. There might be a whole lotta people like Maggie out there, who aren’t too keen on seeing Barry write another World Wide word.
“Hey, Pen!” Seymour Tarnish called, coming in to help with the event. “I need to talk to you.” Pulling me aside, he told me that there was some sort of problem out front.
“Great, that’s all I need.” I followed him to find three people in formal clothing standing near our entrance: two men in suits and ties, and a tall blonde woman in pressed black slacks and a blue blazer.
“They’re press,” Seymour whispered.
“What?”
I talked with the small group and discovered that earlier in the week, Dr. Lilly had invited them personally to attend her lecture today.
“So what’s going on?” said one of the men from a Newport newspaper. “This gentleman”—he pointed to Seymour—“told us that Dr. Lilly isn’t speaking today, or any day. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Yes,” said the tall blonde. “We’re here to cover the publication of her book. Aren’t you hosting a signing with her?”
I glanced at Seymour. He shrugged.
“I’m so sorry...” I explained that Dr. Lilly had had an accident, but that I couldn’t release much more information than that until the authorities contacted her family. “Would you care to stay for our stand- in author? She’s had quite an accomplished career as a novelist and screenwriter.”
The press people glanced at each other, shook their heads, and turned to go. “Sorry, not interested.”
I glanced at Seymour again as we watched them leave. “How odd,” I said. “Is that a news van out there?”
Seymour nodded. “Yep, I can see the TV satellite antennae.”
“Maybe I misjudged how well Dr. Lilly is known,” I murmured.
“What do you mean?” Seymour asked.
“I mean, her backlist is respectable, but it’s never sold any better than any other film historian’s work. She’s an academic not a media personality. This is the first I’ve ever heard of a wonky film studies book getting press attention.”
“Mrs. McClure!” Mina called from the check- out counter. “I’m having that scanning issue again!”
“Sorry, Seymour, it’s back to work for me—and for you, too.” I jerked my thumb toward the Events room. “Get yourself in there and make sure the audience behaves.”
Seymour saluted. “Aye, aye, captain! Your crowd control expert’s in the house!”
CHAPTER 9
You think you know something, don’t you? You think
you’re the clever little girl who knows something. There’s
so much you don’t know . . .
—Shadow of a Doubt,
1943
ABOUT NINETY MINUTES
later, the clapping in the Events room signaled the end of the program. Then the author signing began, and Seymour marshaled the crowd in his own inimitable fashion.
“Come on, people, make a line! Don’t you remember your kindergarten fire drills? Nice and straight please, so you can buy one of Ms. Kline’s pretty books and have her sign it for you!”
I helped with the purchases, and before long the crowd of nearly one hundred people dwindled to less than ten. That’s when Mina called me over to the check- out counter again. Only this time it wasn’t a scanning issue.
“Mrs. McClure! Phone!”
I left Sadie with the remaining people and went to pick up the call. “Hello?” I said. “Buy the Book. Penelope Thornton McClure speaking.”
“I know!” replied a woman on the other end of the line. It was the slightly scratchy soprano voice of Fiona Finch, co- own er of Finch Inn. “Pen, I need to speak with you urgently because I’m worried about interrupting her appearance. And I don’t how she’ll react to this news. I hope you can break it to her easy.”
“Whoa, slow down, Fiona. What news? And who’s ‘she’?”
“Dr. Lilly,” said Fiona.
I tensed. “What’s wrong?”
“Someone’s broken into her suite and robbed her!”
I took a breath. “Fiona, are you sitting down?”
“No. Why should I?” she asked. “I was the one calling you with the shocking news. Isn’t Dr. Lilly at your store, giving a speech right now?”
“Fiona, sit down.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sitting!”
“Dr. Lilly isn’t giving a speech right now because Dr. Lilly is dead.”
“What!”
“Listen to me, Fiona, this is very important. Do you know what’s missing from her suite?”
“No, I don’t. Dr. Lilly wasn’t staying in the main house. She wanted more privacy, so she took the bungalow in the converted Charity Point Light house.”
“Are you sure someone broke in?”
“Oh, yes. One of my maids came running back to our main house. She was frantic because the front door was obviously broken open and things were scattered about. She knew right away someone had violated the room, and she didn’t want to be accused of stealing.”
Hear that, baby?
Jack purred in my head.
The dead dame’s hotel room was tossed. If that’s not a lead, I’m the Spirit of Christmas Past.
“Stay put, Fiona, I’ll meet you at the inn!” I said and slammed down the phone.
SEYMOUR AND I
arrived at the Finch Inn around two that afternoon. Fiona greeted us at the front desk and took us to the parking lot, where the inn’s guest transport vehicles were all neatly parked in a row. Seymour moved for the driver’s seat, but Fiona immediately blocked him.
“Come on, Fiona,” Seymour whined. “Let
me
drive.”
“No way!” Fiona told the off- duty mailman as she vigorously shook her head. “I’ve seen the way you handle your ice cream truck. I don’t have enough insurance to let you get behind the wheel.”
Slight and brown- haired, Fiona was a fastidious, middle-aged woman with small, sharp features. I always thought of her as birdlike—an opinion reinforced by Fiona herself, given her vast collection of pins shaped like the feather vertebrates. Today, she wore a decidedly spring ensemble: a crisp white blouse under a pale yellow pantsuit, an enameled pink flamingo preening on its lapel.
Hearing Fiona’s “no” on his request to drive, Seymour’s next move was to lunge for her keys. Smaller and faster, Fiona easily sidestepped his lumbering move and hugged the keys to her chest. They clanked against the enameled flamingo pin.
Seymour threw up his hands. “For the love of Guffman, it’s only a golf cart! And you have three more.”
“I
had
four more,” Fiona shot back, “until a guest drove one into the duck pond.”
Seymour smiled. “Yeah, I heard about that. But I’m not some bum driving along a badly lit path with a snoot- full. I’m a bona fide government employee.”
“All the more reason not to let you near private property.” Fiona pointed to the cart. “You have two choices, Tarnish. You can climb into the backseat or you can walk to Charity Point.”
“Come on!” Seymour protested.
“Just follow the path along the pond for about a mile,” Fiona said, climbing behind the steering wheel. “You’ll reach the light house in twenty minutes,
if
you walk faster than your typical snail’s pace when you deliver my mail.”
Seymour squinted at the diminutive yellow cart with its white- and- pink polka- dotted canvas top. “I need leg room. Why can’t Penelope squeeze into the back? Then I can ride in the passenger seat.”
“How gallant of you,” Fiona replied dryly. “The answer
ag
ain
is
no
. Frankly, I don’t wish to sit that close to you.”
Seymour glared at the older woman, but he knew he’d met his match. Grumbling, he climbed into the back of the tiny golf cart. It took him a moment to settle in. I sat down, too, and we were on our way.
“Enjoying the ride?” Fiona asked as we sped by a small hand- painted sign for Chez Finch, the Finch Inn’s brand- new gourmet restaurant.
“I feel like a set of Tiger Woods’s golf clubs,” Seymour muttered from the back, his knees around his ears.
The afternoon was luminous, with wispy high clouds in a cobalt sky. The landscaped and manicured grounds around Fiona Finch’s Victorian inn smelled of lilacs, mingled with the salty tang of the ocean.
Situated on the shores of Quindicott Pond, the town’s only bed- and- breakfast was owned and run by both Fiona and her husband, Barney. In less than a de cade, the couple had turned a dilapidated mansion into a historical showplace, and a thriving business. Since then, they’d added the Chez Finch restaurant and a second, smaller rental dwelling called the Light house, which was where we were headed right now.
“Have the police been here?” I asked.
Fiona nodded. “Right after I reported the burglary, Officer Womack showed up. He was all by himself, with a fairly rudimentary crime kit, which he didn’t bother using. All he really did was look around, then rope off the area with yellow tape.”
“That’s it?” I said, surprised.
Fiona shrugged, eyes on the narrow trail. “Officer Womack said he thought the crime was committed by teenagers out to make trouble. He said fingerprints would be useless since the fingerprints of cleaning staff and other guests would make identification of the burglar nearly impossible. He also told me another investigation was going on in town and resources were tied up. I never imagined the two crimes were connected. Obviously, neither did Officer Womack.”
I arched an eyebrow. Fiona was an avid reader of true- crime fiction and one of my best customers. She also had good instincts, and the curiosity and per sistence of a natural- born investigator.
“So you do think there’s a connection?” I asked.
Fiona gave me a sidelong glance. “Odd coincidence if they’re not.”
I stared in thought at the trail ahead. “When did Dr. Lilly check in, exactly? Yesterday morning? Or the day before?”
“Much longer than that. She’s been here a full week already, and she booked the Light house for a second week, too.”
I was surprised at that. “Dr. Lilly was in town for a week? It’s
odd that she never dropped by my store once. Last night, she made a big announcement about the post office losing her book delivery. Yet she’d never checked in with me or my aunt about it.” “She seemed pretty busy, if that’s any help,” Fiona said.
“Busy doing what?”
“One day, I saw her with a laptop in our restaurant, and another day it was a tape recorder and notebooks. I asked her what she was writing, and she said she was working on a new book.”
Busy dame, that Dr. Lilly,
Jack remarked.
The ink’s not even dry on her new book, and she’s already scribbling the next one.
“That’s not unusual, Jack,” I silently replied. “Some authors are prolific. They have a lot to say. And most of them don’t make much money, so they have to write a lot to make a living.”
So what else is new. Every typewriter banger I knew had to hustle for every plugged nickel, too.
We’d come to the end of the pond and the golf cart’s tiny engine really began to chug as we moved toward higher ground. Now the trail was bordered by a thick wooded area on one side, the rocky shore of the Atlantic Ocean on the other.
The only signs of civilization were the foot- tall, solar-powered lamps that Barney Finch had planted ten feet apart, along both sides of the trail to light up the path at night.
As we continued on, I began to spy patches of torn- up earth and deep tire tracks. I wondered about those tracks—the trail was far too narrow for a car to negotiate. I pointed out the damage to Fiona.
“Oh, I know,” Fiona said in an exasperated tone. “This is private property, from here to the Light house and a little beyond, but we get trail bikers racing through here some nights and almost every weekend. The noise is awful and there’s been damage.”
“Vandalism?” I asked.
Fiona sighed. “Probably not deliberate. A few of Barney’s solar lights have been knocked over. I’ve spoken to Chief Ciders about getting a patrol up here, but he claims he hasn’t enough manpower. He says the only way to do it is on a motorcycle, and he hasn’t got any.”
“That’s the best he can do?” I asked.
“Oh, he suggested I hire my own security.”
“When exactly did you discover the robbery?” I asked.
“No more than an hour ago.”
A moment later, I spied the top of the conical tower. We were almost there. Clearly, the area was isolated, so breaking into and entering the Light house bungalow and making an undetected search of the premises would have been a pretty easy proposition for any burglar.
“How do you get your guests out here?” I asked.
“If someone wants a ride to or from the Light house, they just have to call the front desk. Barney, our valet Pedro, or I will give them a lift. But honestly, unless they’re checking in or out and have luggage, hardly anyone asks for a ride, except at night. Most of my guests enjoy strolling to the inn or the restaurant.”
Finally we pulled up in front of Fiona’s newest restoration showplace. The Light house was situated on a rugged cliff that overlooked an area of jagged shoreline known as Charity Point. Below us, waves crashed violently on the millennia- old rocks, kicking up white froth before withdrawing back into the dark blue Atlantic. Gulls cawed nearby as they circled on rising thermals. Across the path from the structure was a stretch of dark woods.
“How Gothic,” Seymour quipped.
“Isn’t it?” said Fiona with a wistful smile. “I’ve always told Barney is reminds me of
Wuthering Heights
.”
Seymour rolled his eyes. “Guess all you have to do is get Pedro to change his name to Heathcliff, and you’re all set.”
This was my first visit to Charity Point in at least fifteen years, and the transformation of its light house was astonishing. The century- old structure had never been used as an actual light house in my lifetime, and for safety reasons, the main building had been bricked up de cades ago.
Covered with teen graffiti, scorched by illegal bonfires, and ravaged by the elements, the light house had become a real eyesore. The Town Council began debating whether to tear the place down. That’s when the Finches stepped in and purchased the site—for a bargain price, too. But they had their work cut out for them. Clearly, they’d spent a small fortune to make this spot the romantic showplace it now was.
“The brickwork is pristine,” I observed.
“Goodness, yes!” Fiona cried. “It took days of sandblasting to get rid of the graffiti and that garish orange paint. You can’t imagine the mess we found inside when we broke through the bricked- up entrance.” She shuddered at the memory.
“Well it’s certainly lovely now,” I said, climbing out of the cart.
The light house tower was impressive. Three stories high, it was capped by a shiny brass- and- glass octagonal compartment that had once held the light itself. But the most noticeable change was to the blocky base, which had been turned into a charming cottage with bay windows, a sundeck, and a winding flagstone path that led up to the front door.
We walked through a rose- covered trellis, and I immediately spied yellow tape on the door, its thick strands emblazoned with the warning: police line—do not cross.
Without hesitation, Fiona tore away the tape. “Officer Womack said someone jimmied open the door.”
Seymour examined the brass knob on the thick, polished door. He scratched the surface with his thumbnail and shook his head. “No way,” he said. “There are
scorch
marks on the doorjamb, and some of the finish on the wood has actually blistered.”
“From heat?” Fiona asked.
“You bet,” Seymour replied. “I’d say a small explosive was used to break the lock open.”
You taking notes, baby?
Jack’s old buffalo nickel was in my pocket, his voice still strong in my head. “I hear you, Jack. And if Seymour’s right, then this burglary and last night’s near-fatal accident at the theater are connected. And if they’re connected, then ruling Dr. Lilly’s death an accident without further investigation would be idiotic.”
Talk to your Buddy Boy first chance you get,
commanded Jack in my head.
Ask him if he found any evidence of an explosive device
—
pieces of a timer, chemical residue, anything
—
when he inspected the theater earlier this morning. If the same stuff was used there as here, you’ll have hard evidence to take to the Staties.
I cleared my throat and turned to Seymour. “Are you sure about what you’re saying? There could be a lot riding on it.”
“I’m sure.” Seymour nodded. “Back in the day, I sweetened an M-80—”
“A
what
?” Fiona asked.
Seymour rolled his eyes. “A firecracker, okay? I used petroleum jelly as an accelerant and added a touch of cordite.
Ka- BOOM!
Blew the door to shop class right off its hinges!”
