The Ghost and the Femme Fatale (7 page)

Thanks for the ride, the three cigarettes, and for not

laughing at my theories on life.

—The Postman Always Rings Twice,
1946

THE MAILMAN AND
I arrived at the Cooper Family Bakery to find it mobbed. Dr. Lilly hadn’t been exaggerating—the line of customers ran down the block. Some were locals, but most appeared to be festival attendees.

“Look, Pen!” Seymour elbowed me. “A friend of ours is almost up to the counter. C’mon!”

Seymour was fine with cutting the line. Me? I wasn’t so comfortable with the dirty looks we were getting until I saw who the “friend of ours” was: Bud Napp.

This is your chance, baby. Wait till Buddy boy’s all sweetened up with pastries, then grill him!

“Check!” I told Jack. But Seymour beat me to the lanky hardware store own er.

“Hey, Thor, where’s your mighty hammer?”

It was Seymour’s favorite joke with Bud, who used a ball peen hammer to maintain control over the Quindicott Business Own ers Association meetings. Bud used to have a real judge’s gavel, until someone lifted it. Now he carried his “good- as- a gavel” to and from our meetings on his tool belt.

“Hi, Bud!” I said brightly, hoping to make up for Seymour’s jibe.

“Hello, Pen,” Bud said, touching the brim of his Napp Hardware baseball cap. Then he frowned at Seymour. “Cut the crap, Tarnish. I’m not in the mood.”

Seymour’s eyes bulged. “My, we’re testy today. What’s eating you?”

Bud was silent as he eyed the people around us. “Nothing I care to talk about.”

Noting Bud’s surly mood, I quickly changed the subject by explaining my plight. Bud immediately offered to help me transport the coffee and pastries back to the bookshop in his hardware store van.

Ten minutes later, he’d downed two doughnuts and a large coffee, then rolled the truck up to the front of the bakery and unlocked the rear double doors. The crowd parted as Seymour and I loaded up the goodies. The three of us wedged ourselves into the front seat of the van. With my elbow jammed into Bud’s overalls, we were off.

During the short drive down Cranberry Street, Jack reminded me to get going with the grilling, and I cleared my throat.

“So, Bud, what did you think about that accident last night at the theater?”

Bud cursed and shook his head. “I won’t take the fall for that one. No way,” he declared.

“Who’s blaming you?” I asked.

“Who isn’t? Your pal the Brainiac for starters.” Bud’s calloused fingers squeezed the steering wheel. “That’s the thanks I get for stepping in at the last second when that fancy restoration firm in Newport couldn’t be bothered with final fixes.”

A bicyclist swerved into Bud’s path. He hit the van’s brakes and horn. The van lurched, throwing me and Seymour forward and back.

“Woah, Speed Racer, chill!” Seymour cried.

“I’ve got a good crew. The best!” Bud continued, ignoring Seymour. “Not a bunch of bums hired off the street. My guys know what they’re doing!”

“Including Dixon Gallagher?” I asked.

Bud frowned. “I know Dixon looks too young to be skilled, but believe me, he is. He’s been working for me part- time for more than ten years. I taught him some, but he already knew plenty because his dad’s a master electrician. When that boy finally gets over his rock- star fantasies and quits his garage band, you can bet he’ll quit me, too, and start earning serious money in the union.”

“So Dixon hung the speaker?”

“No, Pen. I hung that speaker
myse
lf
, and I know the job was done right.”

I watched that cyclist in front of us pedal casually off to the side of the street, as if he hadn’t almost been run over. Festival attendees took advantage of Bud’s situation and jaywalked in front of his van. Bud cursed and honked again.

“What did Chief Ciders say?” I asked.

“That moron with a badge? He claims crossed electrical wires sparked a fire, which damaged the support rack and caused the speaker to drop onto the stage.” Bud slammed the steering wheel. “That dog don’t hunt, I tell you! I’ve been saying we need a real fire marshal in this town, not a bunch of know- nothing volunteers who see two wires within fifty feet of one another and immediately cry ‘electrical fire.’ ”

The street cleared and Bud pushed the pedal to the metal. I was forced back into my seat again as we raced the final few blocks. Then the van screeched to a halt in front of Buy the Book. Seymour immediately popped the door and hopped out.

I stayed. “Tell me more.”

“There was no fire and no fire damage, Pen,” Bud asserted. “The ceiling wasn’t even scorched, and the fire alarm and sprinkler system never went off.”

“What do you think happened?”

“The speaker was hung from the ceiling on a metal brace. One of the struts actually broke. Truth is, Penelope, I think a small explosive was used.”

“What?!”

“I know it sounds crazy. But I also know construction materials. A short, electrical fire could not have generated enough heat to snap steel. A long fire might, but a fire of any duration would have left evidence. Smoke, scorching—and we’d have heard the fire alarms go off.” A shadow crossed Bud’s face. “I’m positive there was an explosion.”

“How could someone plant a bomb up there? On the ceiling?”

“Easy. There’s a ladder in the wings. It goes right up to a catwalk, which runs along the ceiling above the stage. The speaker mount was within easy reach of anyone standing on that catwalk.”

“But if it’s vandalism, who did it? And why?”

Bud couldn’t answer that one, but I was sure someone else had some theories.

“Jack? Are you hearing this?” I quietly asked the ghost.

Yeah, baby. If someone blew the speaker to kill Hedda, they almost succeeded. It could have been little Harmony who’d arranged it. She was probably the only one who knew her granny was going to make a last- minute appearance.

“You’re right, Jack, but if the explosion had a remote device, it could have been triggered by anyone in the audience that night. You heard Seymour—he said Pierce Armstrong might be showing up at the festival. What if he’s here already? Hedda testified against him at his trial. What if he was in the audience last night and rigged the speaker to kill Hedda in some kind of long- overdue revenge scheme?”

Good call, baby. After all, old Hedda’s been out of the spotlight for de cades. Your pal Dr. Lilly said few people even knew she was still alive. It’s darn coincidental that the first night she steps into the public light again, bam!

“Hey!” Seymour cried from the sidewalk. “Are we gonna unload here or what?”

I climbed down out of the van, then turned and leaned through the open window. “We’ll talk about this later, Bud.”

Bud nodded, then left the cab and unlocked the rear doors. Despite the bumpy ride, everything looked fine. Seymour carried the thermal containers to the front door of the bookshop and set them down on the sidewalk. Rather than fumbling in my purse for the keys, I rang the bell. Sadie would show Seymour where to put the coffee when she came to the door. Meanwhile, I went back to retrieve the neat stack of boxed donuts from the back of Bud’s van.

Before I could grab the goodies, Bud jerked his head in the direction of the street. “Here comes trouble,” he warned.

I peered around the van’s rear door—and my heart sunk.

It was Councilwoman Marjorie Binder-Smith. She’d recently abandoned her wannabe- Hillary hairstyle for a “Nancy Pelosi look” (according to Colleen at the beauty shop). Her formerly short, blonde hair had been dyed chestnut brown and grown to her shoulders; her ubiquitous pantsuits were gone, replaced with calf- length skirts and sweater sets.

A uniform of dark blue followed the woman as she charged across Cranberry Street, her hair rigid in the spring breeze. The Quindicott police officer had his hat pulled low, his gait was much slower than Marjorie’s, his broad shoulders slumped.

Abandoning the donuts, I moved to defuse what looked like a ticking bomb. “Good morning, Councilwoman,” I said brightly. “You’re looking senatorial today or should I say Madame Speaker- ish?”

The councilwoman ignored my greeting, swung around to face the cop. Only then did I realize the policeman was my friend Eddie Franzetti.

“Look at the condition of this sidewalk,” the councilwoman told Officer Eddie with theatrical outrage. “There’s garbage everywhere. It’s just a disgrace, and a clear violation of the town’s sanitation ordinances. I want you to issue a littering ticket to this business, right now.”

I looked down at the pavement around my feet. Okay, there were a few gum wrappers, paper cups, and napkins blowing around, but there was still more than an hour before we opened our doors—plenty of time for me to sweep the sidewalk.

“Excuse me!” I interrupted. “We have an entire hour to deal with this little bit of rubbish, and we will.”

I was proud of taking a stand, but Marjorie Binder-Smith didn’t appear impressed with my little protest. In fact, she was wearing the same smirk she’d worn the day she’d temporarily halted the restoration of the Movie Town Theater over some minor ordinance violation. It had taken an entire month for Brainert to straighten out the red tape—and it had cost him and his investors quite a bit of cash, too.

“The ticket stands,” the councilwoman declared with a note of finality. But her eyes were still boring into mine, as if waiting for me to challenge her. I was about to open my mouth when Bud Napp stepped between us.

“Now wait just a doggone minute, Councilwoman,” Bud said. “Everyone knows that storefront businesses have until opening hours to clean their sidewalks. It’s standard practice around here.”

“What you people collectively do for your own convenience has nothing to do with the
official
rules on the town’s books, Mr. Napp,” the woman shot back. “And if it’s not on the books, it doesn’t exist. Not where I come from.”

Where’s that? Down in the bunker with Eva and Adolph?

“Shut it!” I told Jack.

The councilwoman wheeled. “What did you say to me, Mrs. McClure?”

Uh- oh. “Did I say that out loud?”

Don’t fold now, baby. Show some backbone!

I knew Jack meant well, but I suspected arguing would only make things worse.

“Write that ticket, Officer Franzetti,” Marjorie commanded.

Eddie frowned as he opened his ticket book. He began to scribble, his eyes avoiding mine.

“Come on, Marjorie,” Bud said, stepping up to the woman. “Cut Pen a break. A warning is all she should get. She doesn’t know about the town’s ordinance.”

“Ignorance of the law is no excuse!” Marjorie asserted.

Bud turned crimson. “Having an ignoramus like you write our laws is no excuse, either!”

Now we’re getting somewhere!
Jack boomed in my head.

I ignored Jack and jumped between the two. “Look, it’s no big deal. Take it easy.”

An elbow dug into my ribs and I was thrust aside. “What did you call me?” the councilwoman cried.

“I called you an
ignoramus
,” Bud said. “I’d also like to add that you are a petty bureaucrat on some kind of twisted power trip!”

I tried to step between them again, but Seymour pulled me back. “Let Bud go, Pen. Someone should have put a stake in that woman’s heart and filled her mouth with garlic a long time ago.”

“I heard that!” Marjorie cried, wheeling on Seymour. “You’ll be very sorry you said that, Mailman. And that goes double for you, Mr. Napp.”

I heard paper tear. Eddie Franzetti slipped the ticket into my hand.

“What’s going on here?” Aunt Sadie finally made an appearance, but not from inside the store. She was hurrying up to our group from down the street, carrying a Bogg’s Office Supply and Stationery bag. “What’s this?” she asked, snatching the ticket from my fingers.

“It’s a littering citation,” Officer Franzetti informed her.

“A two- hundred- dollar fine!” Sadie cried.

Eddie shrugged. “I don’t make the rules.”

Marjorie Binder-Smith was still sputtering. Finally she managed a coherent sentence. “I am going to sue you for slander, Bud Napp. You wait and see!” Then she faced Seymour. “And let’s just see where you can park that ice cream truck of yours after the
next
town council meeting!”

“You leave my ice cream truck out of this!” Seymour shot back.

Bud stepped up to the councilwoman again. “You have more to worry about that an ice cream truck, Marjorie. I’ve decided. Right here and now—I’m going to run against you in the fall election.
You
wait and see—”

The woman blinked. “What?”

“I’m going to run against you and I’m going to beat you, too,” Bud declared. “And when I take charge, I’m going to teach that band of parasites called a town council that you don’t have to stick it to the small- business own ers to raise town revenues. Got it?!”

For a moment, it was so quiet you could have heard a gum wrapper drop (which probably would have earned me a second ticket). Marjorie glared at Bud for a good ten seconds but said nothing more to him. Instead, she whirled to face Eddie. “You come with me now. The sidewalk in front of that baker up the street is a mess, and so is the area around your family’s pizza kitchen—”

Eddie stopped in his tracks. The councilwoman placed her hands on her hips. “Or you can forget writing tickets, and I’ll have a conversation with Chief Ciders about how one of his officers shows favoritism in how he applies the law.”

Marjorie spun around and headed for Cooper Family Bakery. Eddie hesitated for a moment—no doubt thinking about his wife and children, and pondering what they’d do if he lost his job.

With an air of defeat, he followed the councilwoman across the street.

“That witch,” Sadie hissed, narrowing her eyes at the departing sweater set.

“I prefer
vampir
e
,” Seymour noted.

I turned to Bud. “Did you mean what you said, Bud? Are you really going to run against Marjorie?”

Bud watched the councilwoman’s back, squinting like a sniper taking aim. “You bet I am!”

Sadie exchanged glances with me. “Good!” we both said.

I retrieved the donuts and as Bud locked up his truck, I thanked him again.