The Ghost and the Femme Fatale (16 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
“No,” I said, holding Hedda’s fixed stare, “we can’t.”
The actress nodded and turned back to her signing.
“But,” I added after a moment, “I’m sure someone will be asking Pierce Armstrong about it this weekend.”
Hedda froze the moment I mentioned the name of her former leading man. Her pen stopped moving.
Hedda G
— was as far as her small, fluid script got. It took a few more seconds for her to finish writing her own name.
“Pierce Armstrong?” she finally repeated after clearing her throat. “I’m sorry. What’s that you’re saying, Mrs. McClure? I think I misheard you.”
“Pierce Armstrong is going to appear at the Quindicott Film Noir Festival sometime this weekend. He’s a surprise guest.”
“But . . . how can that be? Nobody’s heard from Mr. Armstrong in de cades . . . I mean... his name disappeared off the guild lists, and... I... I didn’t realize that he was even still alive.”
“I haven’t seen him yet myself. He’s in town though. Professor Brainert Parker told me he’s staying as a guest in Dean Pepper’s home.”
“Well, it’s been years, I must say. More like a lifetime. I can’t imagine what Pierce would think, seeing me after all these de cades . . . but I’d be very interested in saying hello to him....” Hedda’s smile appeared tight. She lowered her voice.
Through gritted teeth, she asked: “How many
more
books must I sign here, Mrs. McClure?”
I glanced up at the crowd. Only about a half- dozen more people were lined up. I signaled to Seymour. “That young woman in the blue shirt is the last one in line. Let’s keep it that way, okay? We’re done after her.”
Seymour saluted. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
Hedda signed two more books and then an attractive, dark haired man stepped up—he had sleepy eyes and a yellow
J. Crew Windbreaker draped over his arm. I recognized him instantly. And I noticed with interest that he was no longer carrying his bulky canvas backpack.
“Hello there, Hedda.” The man’s voice was as smooth as I remembered. “Would you mind signing a book for your biggest fan?”
“Dr. Rubino!” Hedda immediately brightened. “What a delightful surprise!”
“The delight is seeing you here,” he said. “I was in town on business, and I almost forgot that this weekend was the film noir festival you were telling me about at your last appointment.” Randall Rubino’s sleepy dark eyes glanced up at me then, and he smiled. “Penelope here was good enough to let me know about your signing.” He handed the book over. “Would you mind?”
“Mind? I’m flattered! And more than happy to oblige with a
personal
inscription...”
Rubino nodded and set down the book. As Hedda went about scribbling a note in her small, fluid handwriting, I suddenly remembered something.
“Jack?” I silently whispered.
Yeah, baby?
“Have you noticed how small Hedda’s handwriting is?”
Yeah, baby, an hour ago. I was waiting to see how long it’d take you.
“In the dream you gave me, Benny had to squint to make out the second signature in the Gotham Features log book. The first Pierce Armstrong signature was in big, bold block letters, the second was small, fluid script.”
So either Armstrong likes to write his name two different
ways, or Hedda signed out the second car herself and wrote down Pierce’s name to keep herself out of the written record.
“So what was she doing picking up the DA’s mistress at the Hotel Chester? Was she a friend of the girl’s? Isn’t that a little coincidental—since the DA was at the Porterhouse the very night of Vreen’s stabbing? And what’s with Dr. Rubino showing up here after his run in the woods? I still think it was strangely coincidental that I spotted him near the light house so soon after the burglary.”
After a few more charming but fairly insubstantial remarks to Hedda, Dr. Rubino gave me another smile, then picked up his signed book and stepped away. I watched his back as he wandered toward the Event room’s exit.
Why are you just standing there, baby? You’re not letting him go, are you? Get your pan ties in gear, and go brace the man!
My eyes wide from Jack’s balling- out, I hastily excused myself from Hedda’s side and rushed across the room to catch Rubino.
“Doctor? Pardon me! Dr. Rubino, I’d like to speak with you in private.”
Randall Rubino turned around and calmly nodded, as if he wasn’t one bit surprised to be collared. “Of course, Penelope, of course.”
He almost sounded resigned. I pointed to a quiet corner of the Events room. We strolled over there, and Rubino immediately started talking.
“I can’t say that I’m surprised by this, Penelope.”
“Really?”
“I don’t think you should be embarrassed, either.”
“I’m not.”
“Good. What happened earlier was quite a shock. Anyone would have reacted the way you did.”
I blinked, hardly able to believe getting the man to talk was going to be this easy. “That’s nice of you to say, Dr. Rubino, considering the situation.”
Strangely enough, Dr. Rubino then handed me Hedda’s book to hold while he reached into his jacket pocket for a pad and pen.
“Oh, Doctor. You don’t have to write it down. Just talk to me, tell me everything. Get it all off your chest.”
The doctor froze. “What are you talking about?”
“What do you mean? I’m talking about seeing you at the Charity Point Light house and running after you into the woods. I wanted to question you then, but I lost you. I assume you have something to confess, and I’m glad you’re making it easy.”
“Now I
re
ally
don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Rubino.
“Well what were
you
talking about?”
“Writing you a prescription for Valium, of course!”
“I thought you were going to explain
why
you were running away from a recently burglarized bungalow. A bungalow belonging to a woman who you declared died of an accident— when it was not an accident at all.”
“Penelope, I really do think you need some medication.” Rubino began scribbling on his prescription pad.
“Don’t evade the question, Doctor. What were you doing at the Charity Point Light house?”
“If you must know, I was hiking the area, looking for a good spot to
fish
. I did notice a no trespassing sign near the light house and that’s why I hurried away. I had no idea I was on private property.” He shook his head. “I’m surprised to learn you saw me—or that you were trying to chase me down.”
I studied Rubino’s knitted brows. “You fish?”
“Yes, the area near your town has some of the best oceanside fishing in the state. When Chief Ciders called me here today, I packed my gear.”
“Oh, you packed your gear, did you? Then where is it?”
“In the trunk of my car. Where else?” Rubino ripped off the prescription and handed it to me. “Now if you’ll give me back my signed book, I’ll be on my way.”
“But ...”
Dr. Rubino snatched the book from my hands. “I’d advise you to get that prescription filled right away, Penelope. The stress is obviously getting to you.” Then he turned on his heel and began to walk away. “And don’t take it with alcohol,” he tossed over his shoulder.
Congratulations, baby, your gumshoeing just got hinky.
“Well, you weren’t exactly a big help.”
There was no saving that interrogation, honey. It was about
the absolute worst I’ve seen in all my years
—
and I’m including the dead ones.
“You don’t need to rub it in.”
Tell you what: I’ll make it up to you.
“What? Another night tailing cheating husbands while drinking martinis stirred not shaken?”
No baby, another lead. Turn around and take a look at who else seems to be Dr. Rubino’s friend.
Through the archway connecting the Events room to the store’s selling floor, I saw Randall Rubino speaking with someone. I took a few steps closer to the room’s exit and finally saw who: Harmony Middleton. The two were standing very close, their heads bent together in private conversation. As I watched, it appeared the good doctor was growing impatient, even angry.
A lover’s spat?
Jack proposed.
“Could be,” I replied.
Suddenly, Rubino stepped back, grasped young Harmony’s upper arm, and pulled her away from the crowded part of the store.
Get closer, baby. Follow them.
I did. Careful to stay clear of their sightline, I tailed them to a quiet aisle near the back corner, where I stocked a collection of children’s and young adult mysteries for the families in the area. I peeked around the endcap display of Encyclopedia Brown books—the ones Spencer had devoured back in fourth grade.
“Come on, Randy... you know I need it.”
It was Harmony’s voice and it sounded whiney, like a brat who wanted candy.
“Let’s not go down that road again, Harmony. You remember what happened the last time.”
“You’re being difficult. Can’t you see my side?”
“Let’s table this discussion. It’s not the time or place. Talk to me another time, all right?”
“When?”
“Whenever you need to. Ring my cell, and we can straighten this out.”
The two parted then, and I quickly moved away from the aisle.
“What do you think, Jack? Seems awfully suspicious,” I noted.
Jack agreed then reminded me of one more suspicious thing.
Dr. Char
m says he was looking for a fishing spot when you saw him hiking near the light house with a backpack, right?
“Right.”
When you saw him out there, he was carry ing a pack and nothing else. Where the hell was his fishing pole?
CHAPTER 14
It was a great big elephant of a place, the kind of place
crazy movie people built in the crazy twenties.
—Sunset Boulevard,
1950
I RETURNED TO
the front of the store, resolving to keep Randall Rubino high on my “suspects with hinky alibis” list. I noticed Brainert finishing up a call on his cell. I walked over to him.
“Have you spoken with Dr. Pepper?”
Brainert closed his phone. “All I get is his voice mail. I’ve tried his home, the college, even the box office at the theater, but I can’t locate the man.” He sighed. “I’m sure Pierce Armstrong is settled at Wendell’s house by now, but the old man might be reluctant to answer someone else’s phone—”
“Then let’s drive over. Surely Armstrong will answer the door if he’s there.”
Brainert nodded. “My thoughts exactly. I’m parked right across the street, and it’s a short drive to Larchmont Avenue.”
“Let’s go.”
I gave Sadie a heads- up, grabbed my purse from behind the sales counter, and hurried back to Brainert, who quickly scanned the room. “No sign of Seymour,” he said, and started for the door.
“Wait! I’m sure he’s around. He was helping me with Hedda’s signing, but we’re all through with that now, so he’s probably changing out of his uniform—”
“No, no, Pen. You misunderstand,” Brainert whispered conspiratorially. “Seymour’s absence is a good thing. We don’t need him fawning over Pierce Armstrong while we try to interview the man, or poking fun at Dr. Pepper’s good name and embarrassing us both.”
Suddenly a large arm snaked around Brainert’s neck and a beefy hand mussed his neatly combed hair.
“That’s what I love about you, Brainiac,” Seymour said. “Always a stickler for etiquette.”
Brainert quickly extricated himself from his friend’s bear hug and smoothed down his neatly cut brown hair. He whirled to face Seymour and gasped.
“What’s the matter?” Seymour said, arms wide. “I told you I was going to change into civilian clothes.”
Seymour’s large T-shirt sported a vintage Mighty Mouse flying over a cartoon skyline, tiny cape fluttering in the breeze. His hairy legs stuck out of khaki shorts that ended just above his dimpled knees. Size- twelve feet were tucked into clogs, which he wore sans socks.
Brainert groaned. “How old are you?”
“Old enough,” Seymour replied.
“Except for your lack of a baseball hat—worn backward, of course—you could pass for one of my college students’ younger siblings.”
Seymour reached back, yanked a ragged Red Sox cap out of his back pocket, and donned it
backward
.
“Let’s go,” he said. “I can’t wait to meet Pierce Armstrong.”
Larchmont Avenue was a quiet, shady boulevard at the top of a picturesque hill on the edge of town. The homes were large three- and four- story structures surrounded by expansive lawns and lush topiaries. Each house was unique. Many had flagstone paths, balconies, even widow’s walks circling their roofs. The oaks, elm, maple, and chestnut trees that dotted the lawns and hugged the walls of the homes were well over a century old. And no home here was built later than the 1920s. That was about the last time most people in our little town of Quindicott had been able to afford a new house as large as these.
The dean of St. Francis’s School of Communications lived here, too, in a sprawling three- story building of sand- colored stone, red roof tiles, arched windows, and wrought- iron balconies.
On the drive over, Brainert had explained that the dean’s large house was a repository for his lifelong interest in certain collectibles.
“It’s practically a museum dedicated to Hollywood of the 1940s through the ’70s, chiefly related to film noir. I’m sure you’ll both be impressed. It’s a superb collection. The Smithsonian has expressed interest in obtaining certain pieces after his death.”
Brainert parked at the curb. He tried his colleague’s home phone one more time, but only connected with the answering machine.
With a sigh, he closed his cell phone. “Let’s go.”
We followed a winding stone path through a manicured lawn trimmed in dark green shrubs and bright red tulips. At the large front porch, we paused in front of the door.
“I hope someone’s here,” Brainert said as he rang the bell.
I heard movement in the house on the second ring. The lock clicked and to my surprise screenwriter and novelist Maggie Kline opened the door.
“Parker! What a surprise!” Laugh lines creased the edges of her eyes as she gave him a big smile. She adjusted her red-framed glasses and put a hand on the hip of her low- waisted khakis. “And you brought friends, I see. Is this a party? Did Wendell invite you over? Come on in.”
We entered a high- roofed foyer with bright yellow walls and a slowly rotating ceiling fan. The space was dominated by a huge framed poster for the film
Taxi Driver
. The central image of Robert De Niro as Travis Bickle was framed by a yellow border, which matched the walls. Below it was a glass case, displaying a pistol rigged on some kind of sliding rail—a prop from one of the movie’s scenes, I assumed.
“The man in the Mighty Mouse shirt is Seymour Tarnish,” Brainert told Maggie. “Seymour is our local mailman, and a big fan of Pierce Armstrong’s.”
“Oh, I see. You came to pay him a visit. I’m so sorry, he’s not here. Wendell just took Pierce over to the Movie Town Theater for his first talk of the weekend.”
Brainert sighed. “I’m sorry we missed him, too. I called several times but—”
“Uh- oh, my bad. I’ve been ignoring the phone. This is kind of embarrassing, but . . .” Maggie made a pained face. “Wendell’s ex- wife has been calling and calling. I didn’t want to complicate matters by picking up the phone again and getting into a conversation with the woman about who I am and why I’m staying with Wendell. We had one brief, unhappy conversation, and frankly I don’t care to go through a repeat per for mance. But let’s not dwell on that. Come in! Come in!”
Maggie led us into the living room. Here the bone- white walls were lined with three- foot- tall posters, framed under protective glass. On one wall, Humphrey Bogart was facing off with Mary Astor in
The Maltese Falcon
; Fred MacMurray was passionately kissing Barbara Stanwyck in
Double Indemnity
, the words
You can’t kiss away a murder
! emblazoned across their clinched bodies; and Veronica Lake’s stunning image smoldered away in
This Gun for Hire
—her first film with Alan Ladd, who was destined to become her leading man in the classic noirs
The Blue Dahlia
and
The Glass Key
.
I walked the length of the room, taking in more legendary images: the ravishing, raven- haired Faith Domergue clutching a gun as sleepy- eyed Robert Mitchum grabbed for her in
Where Danger Lives
; Robert Montgomery’s finger squeezing a trigger in
The Lady in the Lake
; trench- coated cop Dana Andrews appearing completely smitten with the bewitching Gene Tierney in
Laura
; and Bogart facing off with yet another woman, this time his legendary lady love, Lauren Bacall, in
The Big Sleep.
“Wow,” I said. “These old movie posters are absolutely amazing.”
“They’re actually called one- sheets,” Maggie said.
“One- sheets?”
“That’s right.” Maggie pointed to the faintest traces of creasing in the
Double Indemn
ity
poster. “Until the 1960s, one-sheet posters were printed on uncoated paper and folded into rectangles for shipping. That’s why it’s so hard to get them in good condition. Wendell’s done a magnificent job preserving these.”
A few of the framed one- sheets were surrounded by smaller posters, displaying entirely different scenes from the films. “And what are these called?” I asked, pointing to the smaller posters.
“Oh, those aren’t posters. Those are lobby cards,” Maggie informed me. “They’re printed on heavy cardstock instead of paper, and they were usually sent by the studios in sets of eight. Theater own ers placed them in the lobby—hence the name. They were very similar to window cards.”
“Okay,” I said, “you got me again. What exactly are window cards?”
Maggie gestured to a 14- by- 22 inch card advertising the 1945 film
Detour.
“Window cards were printed on heavy cardstock, too. You can tell the difference between a window card and a lobby card by this blank strip at the top of the card. See?” She pointed to the top of the card. “The local theater would use that space to write its name. In this case, it was the Empire, in New York City.”
Waddya know, my old haunt,
said Jack, obviously amused.
Of course, back then I charged a per diem for my haunting. ’Cause I wasn’t dead yet.
“Oh, Jack...” I privately groaned. “That is so bad...”
“So, Maggie,” Brainert spoke up, “you
and
Pierce are both staying here?”
Maggie nodded. “This house is large enough to put up five guests, let alone two, but I guess you know that.”
Seymour’s bulging eyes had been bugged out in awe since he entered the living room. “Mind if I have a look around?” he asked.
“No problem! Enjoy,” Maggie replied.
Seymour wandered off—I presumed in pursuit of any Fisherman Detective memorabilia—and Maggie continued to chatter away.
“Wendell’s so proud of his movie mementos. He tells me his ex- wife would only allow them in
certain
rooms. Now that she’s gone, he’s put things all over the house. It’s wonderful! Reminds me of when I was growing up. My father was in the movie business. It was so exciting. He saved every poster his studio ever put out. Unfortunately, it was all lost after he died.
Anyway, there aren’t many folks in this area who really appreciate the scope of a collection like this. Things would be different on the West Coast—”
“Excuse me,” Brainert finally interrupted, “but you men tioned that Wendell took Pierce Armstrong to the Movie Town Theater?”
“That’s right.”
Brainert scratched his head. “I wasn’t aware that a talk was scheduled for this afternoon.”
“It wasn’t. It’s kind of a last- minute thing,” Maggie explained. “Pierce agreed to a lengthy appearance on stage tomorrow, as well as an autograph session. But when he found out there was a screening of one of his short- subject films today, he expressed an interest in seeing it. So Wendell suggested an impromptu Q&A after the showing. I’m sure it will be quite a shock for the audience to see the Fisherman Detective in the flesh. But then Pierce is supposed to be one of the weekend’s special ‘surprise’ guests.” Maggie laughed. “Surprise!”
Maggie’s face fell after that. She touched Brainert’s arm. “Frankly, I think Wendell wanted to cheer the old man up. Pierce took the news of Dr. Lilly’s death very hard.”
I blinked. “Pierce Armstrong
kne
w
Dr. Lilly?”
Maggie nodded. “Dr. Lilly taped an extensive interview with him for her next book.”
“Her
next
book,” I repeated. “Not the one that was just published?”
“That’s right,” said Maggie.
I stepped closer. “Did Pierce Armstrong say what the unpublished book was going to be about?”
“Haven’t a clue.” Maggie removed her red- framed glasses and cleaned them with the edge of her T-shirt. “He claimed Dr. Lilly’s project was top secret. Funny, huh?”
“More like puzzling.” Brainert frowned. “Dr. Lilly’s current book is about Hedda Geist’s life and her career at Gotham Features. I wonder why she didn’t interview Pierce Armstrong for that one?”
“That I can tell you,” said Maggie, popping her glasses back on. Apparently, Dr. Lilly caught up with Pierce only a few months ago. He was living incognito in a Florida retirement community. That’s how he got on board with your film festival—through Dr. Lilly. I have to admit, I was shocked to learn the man was still alive and kicking. There are very few actors of his generation still breathing.”
“Did you say Pierce Armstrong was living
incogn
ito
?” Brainert asked.
Maggie nodded. “At the time Dr. Lilly found him, he was living under his given name, which is Franklin Pierce Peacock. He changed it to Pierce Armstrong for his Hollywood career, but there’s nothing unique about that. In Hollywood, people’s names are about as authentic as your average anorexic starlet’s C-cup breasts.”
My mind was racing. “Jack?” I silently called. “Are you hearing this?”
Yeah, baby. I always pay attention when the conversation turns to women’s breasts.
“Are you joking?”
Jack laughed.
“What’s gotten into you?”
I don’t know. An entire house dedicated to pretend stuff sort of strikes me as funny.
“Well, I’m not laughing. I’m thinking about all those missing tapes in Dr. Lilly’s bungalow.”
I know, baby. If your friend Maggie here is right, then Dr. Lilly has been secretly interviewing Pierce Armstrong, which means those tapes are probably the ones that are missing. In fact, I’d be willing to bet the ranch... if I had a ranch.
“Pierce could be the key, Jack. He could be the reason Dr. Lilly was working on a second book. He could be providing proof that the allegations made in her first book are true.”
Not necessarily, doll. Our dead Lilly could have been working on a simple biography of his life. Just like she wrote of Hedda’s
—
only at the end of the book, she could have lowered the boom on Pierce, just like she did with Hedda, making him look like a heel. After all, he did time for manslaughter, but if Lilly charges that he’d planned the murder with Hedda, then he’ll come off as a cold- blooded killer who should have gotten the gas chamber.
“Oh, my god, Jack, I hadn’t thought of that. But it’s exactly what Truman Capote did to get his story for
In Cold Blood
. He duped the murderers into trusting him, so he could get the inside story of their crime from their point of view.”
I blew out air and gnawed my thumbnail, pretending to admire the one- sheet for
Out of the Past
while considering Jack’s theory. “Dr. Lilly could have
duped
Armstrong into giving her interviews, pumping him up with tales of glory. But her ultimate goal might simply have been to publish another sensational biography about a scandalized actor.”
