The Ghost and the Dead Deb

CHAPTER 3

Accuse Me?

Not only could she spit a curve in your eye, but she could cuss for minutes at a time without repeating.

—Walter Winchell, New York Evening Graphic, 1929

SEYMOUR’S FRANTIC PLEA was followed by a loud cry, then the clatter of a metal folding chair as it struck the hardwood floor. Before I realized I was moving, I raced across the length of the store and into the packed events room.

Most of the audience members were still seated. But many were on their feet, especially those seated in the first few rows where, apparently, the trouble had started. Near the center of the third row, I spied the overturned chair. Standing next to it was a petite young woman, her straw-blonde hair tied into a tight ponytail. Her eyes were bright as she shouted and shook her fist at Angel Stark—or rather, at Angel’s publicist Dana Wu, who had thrown herself between the ranting young woman and her client.

“Lies! Lies! I hope someone makes you pay for your lies,” the woman cried, her voice strident and full of rage, yet trembling as if she were fighting back tears. “You’re smearing Bethany’s name. You and your stupid books and your filthy lies. Why did you come here? No one wants you . . . No one wants you anywhere near us, you bitch! Why don’t you just die and leave us all in peace!”

Despite the harsh emotion that twisted the young woman’s face, she possessed a gangly, adolescent beauty. She wore no makeup and her casual clothes were typical of a college freshman—a Brown University T-shirt and cargo shorts.

I tried to approach the woman, intending to calm her even as I escorted her out. But so many people were on their feet and filing out of the row of chairs that I found myself swimming against a human tide. I saw Brainert, watching the whole scene with a bemused expression.

Meanwhile, hands tugged at the woman, trying to pull her back, away from the podium. Two women, roughly the same age as the heckler, were attempting—so far unsuccessfully—to mollify the distraught woman.

One of the two was at least a head taller than the heckler. Dressed in a black tank top and lowrider jeans, her shoulder-length raven hair contrasted starkly with her pale skin, and her pierced lower lip was curled into a frown. She had grabbed the ranting woman by the shoulders and was attempting to speak to her.

The other woman was dressed in a pink sundress and sandals and was compelled to push back long, red curls that danced around her flushed face as she gamely tried to drag her friend away from the confrontation.

I was hoping Brainert would do something, but he seemed stunned by the action. Then Seymour appeared at my shoulder. Arms raised, he made a valiant effort at taking control of the audience. “Everyone! Calm down!”

With chaos whirling around me, and visions of lawsuits dancing in my head, it was definitely not the time for the ghost of Jack Shepard to speak up.

So of course he did.

What a hairball! Sounds like a speakeasy raid.

“Not now, Jack.”

Then take my two cents and give that little girl the bum’s rush solo, before your big-draw, money-in-the-bank author takes it on the chin.

“Butt out,” I told Jack as I pushed past Seymour.

It occurred to me that I’d spoken out loud when Seymour faced me. He had the hurt expression of an abused puppy.

“Hey, Pen . . . I was just trying to help . . .”

“I wasn’t referring to you, Seymour. I . . . I mean the troublemaker,” I lied.

As it turned out, no more help was needed. The girl’s companions had calmed her. Clinging to her girlfriends, the young woman allowed herself to be led away. The crowd parted as the trio moved to the door. The young woman, tears streaming down her face, muttered apologies to her companions as they moved up the aisle.

Like the others, Seymour stood aside to let them pass, even as I exchanged looks with the woman’s two companions.

“Can I help?” I asked. The tall girl with the short black hair and the pierced lip shoved me aside with a strength that surprised me.

“Get out of the way, bitch,” she hissed, glancing over her shoulder at the podium. Her words evoked gasps from those within earshot.

I threw up my hands in surrender and backed away. As the trio made their exit, all eyes watched them go.

A pale, frowning Dana Wu was still clutching the microphone stand, legs braced as the eyes returned to the stage. The publicist seemed determined to protect her client until the rabid young woman was out of the building.

Then I peered over Dana’s shoulder, into the bright brown eyes of Angel Stark. She didn’t seem disturbed in the least by the ugly scene—even though some of the heckler’s angry words bordered on criminal threats. She seemed almost pleased. Obviously, this was an author who loved to shock her fans. And she’d wowed them again. But I couldn’t share her enthusiasm.

As members of the crowd took their seats and waited for the Q & A to resume, I hurried toward the exit, intent on tracking the troublemaking trio. But before I passed through the archway that led from the large Community Events space to the main bookstore, I noticed that one woman, near the side of the room, had not reclaimed her seat.

The tall, thin woman with light blue eyes, long, straight blonde hair, sunken cheeks, and a small, pointy chin had remained on her feet to fire poisonous eye daggers directly at me. Our gazes locked—as if she expected me to recognize her. Or was she challenging me to approach her?

I was concerned enough to comply, but was interrupted by the amplified screech of our public address system. Angel Stark was trying to speak, but her words were lost in electronic distortion. I turned from the dagger-staring blonde and rushed toward the microphone box to fix the problem.

Bud Napp’s nephew, Johnny, who’d just joined a local band and understood the vagaries of feedback, moved to my side after a few seconds of my own inept adjustments and helped me fix the mike to eliminate the screech. When the sound was stabilized, Angel smiled at Johnny’s big brown eyes and dimpled chin, then nodded. Finally, she faced the crowd.

“Well, the critics have spoken, and I can only say that a certain inscrutable reviewer at the New York Times was far less kind. My conclusion therefore is simply this—that chick needs to have her meds adjusted!”

There was a burst of laughter, and a ripple of applause. Still, an undertone of nervous tension remained in the room. Angel simply tossed her long copper hair.

“Any more questions?” she asked breezily.

A dozen hands shot into the air. Angel pointed to someone who proceeded to compare Angel’s previous book to the work of the number-one purveyor of gonzo journalism, the late Mr. Hunter S. Thompson himself.

“Well, unlike Mr. Thompson, I don’t travel armed.”

More laughter followed, and as the debate continued, Angel seemed to enjoy the comparison.

Satisfied that order had been restored, I moved toward the exit again. On the way, I searched for the statuesque young blonde with the pointy chin and ice chip eyes who’d glared at me from the side of the room. But like the mysterious heckler and her companions, the stranger was gone.

In the main store, I could sense the “emotional fallout” from the coed’s outburst had reached the checkout area. Aunt Sadie had witnessed the trio’s exit, but she didn’t appear bothered. She smiled and chatted up the customers as if nothing were amiss. By her side, however, Mina seemed tense as she rang up purchases and bagged them.

Outside, the streets were dark, but the summer heat had not dissipated. Seymour came through the front door and approached me.

“They’re gone,” he said quietly. “All three of them piled into a black sedan and drove away. That girl seemed pretty upset with your author.”

“Did you speak with her? Find out who she was? Why she was here?”

Seymour threw up his hands. “Hey, you’re talking to a confirmed bachelor. I wasn’t going near her. Women’s tears scare the heck out of me.” A sudden burst of applause from the events room interrupted him. When the cheers died away, Seymour shrugged and added. “Anyway, I’ve got to admit, this was the most exciting author appearance since Timothy Brennan croaked at your podium last year.”