The Ghost and the Femme Fatale

CHAPTER 14. True Crime

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 performance. 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 Indemnity 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 owners 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 meni 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 knew 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 incognito?" 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."

And if Pierce got wind of that new book of Lilly's, Murdered in Plain Sight, he might have figured that out. And he might not have been too happy.

"So Pierce could be the one who killed Dr. Lilly, or had her killed, and her tapes stolen… "

It's a possibility. And although I'm no fan of Queen Hedda the Diva, I have to tell you, Pierce has the strongest motive for offing her next. Hedda was the one who put the nail in his coffin by testifying against him, right?

Suddenly Seymour cried out. "Hey, in here! Come quick. You've got to see this!"

Brainert, Maggie, and I immediately dashed off in the direction of Seymour 's call. We raced down a hallway filled with more film memorabilia and found him in the house's large dining room. The space was dominated by a huge tropical fish tank.

"Check it out," Seymour said, pointing above the tank.

I followed his gaze, hoping for some sort of clue about Pierce from the Fisherman Detective series, but the framed one-sheet on the wall featured another actor, from an entirely different decade. Three action-packed images were punctuated by a blurb that read "Look up! Look down! Look out! Here comes the biggest Bond of them all!"

"This is an original Robert McGinnis poster for Thunderball!" Seymour exclaimed. "There's Sean Connery with the famous jet pack on top; beneath that he's battling thugs under-water. At the bottom, he's surrounded by the signature Robert McGinnis babes."

"Who's Robert McGinnis?" Brainert asked.

"Who's Robert McGinnis?" cried Seymour in outrage. "Only one of the greatest illustrators of the 1960s. Not only did he paint a slew of James Bond posters, McGinnis also did the poster art for Barbarella and practically all the paperback covers for the Mike Shayne mysteries."

"Mike who?" Brainert asked.

"Mike Shayne," I replied. All eyes turned toward me. I shrugged. "Shayne was the star of those old hard-boiled detective novels written by Brett Halliday. Aunt Sadie knows the rare book market, and she always said it was the cover art that made them collectable."

"And look at this!" Seymour exclaimed, pointing to a narrow sideboard.

In my experience, dining room sideboards were used to display soup tureens and crystal vases. But this narrow cabinet of polished mahogany was completely dedicated to displaying what looked like a strange-looking long-barreled weapon.

"What is that?" I asked, not quite trusting my eyes.

"It's an original speargun prop from the Thunderball movie!"

Seymour 's eyes were bugging. He carefully lifted it off the metal display stand. "Wow, it's heavy, too. Must be at least seven pounds."

He aimed it at the fish tank.

"Man, think of it: one of Largo 's men actually pointed this spear gun at James Bond in the big underwater battle, just like this!"

"And who is Largo?" Brainert sniffed.

"Emilio Largo was Bond's arch-villain in Thunderball! Sheesh! Don't you know anything, Brainert?!"

"I know other things, Seymour. Important things."

"Right, like how many biblical references Melville packed into Moby Dick? Five hundred and twenty-four was my last count. Or what year Franz Kafka first published a novella about a traveling salesman who turns into a giant cockroach? Nineteen-fifteen."

"What are you driving at, mailman?"

"Trivia by any other name is still trivia."

Brainert threw up his hands. "So that's why you called us back here? To impugn higher education while you play with a movie prop?"

"I wanted you to see the Thunderball poster! It's got legendary art on it. I thought even an egghead like you could appreciate it. Apparently not."

Brainert exhaled in exasperation. "I don't even know why Wendell has a James Bond poster and speargun prop, and in his dining room of all places." His nose wrinkled. "It's in bad taste!"

Brainert and Seymour were still arguing as we walked out of the dining room and back into the hallway. While we strolled toward the living room, I took a closer look at the memorabilia that we'd raced past on our way to Seymour.

There were more posters as well as props and pieces of costuming either framed or in glass cases. I noticed a one-sheet and lobby cards hanging near an arched alcove and stopped dead. A familiar face was staring back. The actress in the picture was very young and no raving beauty-more like the girl next door with caramel-colored curls and a dimple in her chin.

"My god," I cried aloud. "That's-"

It's her, doll! District Attorney Nathan Burwell's paramour. The chippy from the Hotel Chester!

"Ah," Maggie said, obviously responding to my outburst. "You're admiring the restored one-sheet for Man Trap"

"Oh, uh… y-yes," I stammered.

"It's really something," Maggie continued. "There's only one more like it in the whole world. That one resides at San Fernando University 's film history archive…"

As Maggie talked, I pretended to examine the Man Trap one-sheet, but I was really checking out the scene on one of the eight surrounding lobby cards. The face on the scantily clad girl standing next to Sybil Sand was unmistakable. It was the same girl I'd seen in my dream of Jack's past, the girl at the Porter-house with Nathan Burwell.

"Who's this actress?" I asked aloud.

Seymour stepped closer. "I think she's in the nightclub scenes in that movie. Yeah, a cigarette girl with a few lines. She speaks to Hedda Geist, and then another actor makes a comment about how the girl's way too young to be working in a place like that. Never saw the actress before or since. Just some extra, I guess."

"Hey, look at this," Brainert said, pointing to a yellowing booklet resting inside a glass case. "This is an original souvenir program for Man Trap."

"It's unusual to have one for a film like this," Maggie said. "But the studio wanted to promote Hedda-"

The doorbell buzzed, interrupting her. Maggie excused herself and headed for the foyer.

"Quick," I hissed when the woman was out of earshot. "Open the case and let me see that booklet."

Brainert's eyes widened in horror. "What!"

"Open that case," I insisted. "Even if you have to break it open."

Seymour reached out a hand and lifted the lid. "Relax, it's unlocked."

I gently removed the crumbling press book from its display case and carefully turned the brittle pages. The complete cast list was on the third page.

"Cigarette Girl played by Wilma Brody," I read aloud.

Seymour blinked. "So what?"

"I concur," Brainert said. "Who is this Wilma Brody and why should we care?"

Before I could make up an explanation, we were interrupted by a woman's voice, shrill with anger. Maggie's reply came in a reasonable but icy tone.

"Oh God," Brainert said, cringing. "It's Virginia… the former Mrs. Wendell Pepper."

I placed the press book back into its case and closed the lid. In the living room, the voices became louder.

"I think we'd better do something," Brainert said. "It's turning into an argument."

Seymour backed away, palms high, head shaking. "Count me out. Ex-wives scare the crap out of me."

"All right," Brainert said. Squaring his shoulders, he led the way to the living room. I followed, Seymour brought up the rear.

"I'm looking for Wendell," cried the shrill voice from the living room. "Not his latest mistress!"

"I'm nobody's mistress, Mrs. Pepper," Maggie civilly replied, "and I told you, Wendell is not here. Try calling him at-"

"I've tried calling him, dozens of times! He's ducking me, the worm, but I won't tolerate-"

Virginia Pepper looked up when we entered the living room. The ex-wife of the St. Francis dean was tall and willowy with a long, slender neck. Her blonde hair was pulled back tightly, exposing a great deal of Botoxed forehead. Her eyebrows appeared to slant demonically when she spied Brainert, Seymour, and me. Then her gaze began to bounce back and forth among all of us, as if she were trying to decide who to target first.

"Hello, Virginia," said Brainert, boldly stepping into the line of fire.

My gay, academic friend may have had a physique like Ichabod Crane's, but he had the heart of a Round Table knight, always willing to withstand slings and arrows for his friends.

The woman's predatory eyes narrowed. "Busybody Brainert," she said, her voice dripping with contempt. "Showing gawkers around this mausoleum, are you?"

Brainert's eyes narrowed. "No need to be rude, Virginia. I really don't think-"

"I recognize her," said Virginia, moving on to me. "You're that shopkeeper, the woman who runs that bookstore with her old aunt on Cranberry Street. My friend the councilwoman's mentioned you."

"Councilwoman?" I said. "Which one? You don't mean Marjorie Binder- Smith?"

"Yes, of course. There are other women on the council, of course, but she's the only one with any vision in this backward little town. She says you're a real troublemaker. Probably stupid, too, if you're involved with my ex-husband."

Cripes, this dame's one annoying harridan. No wonder ol' Wendell's not returning her calls. Who'd want to talk to a broad with a stick up her-

"Stop being a bitch, Virginia," Brainert snapped, stepping even farther forward. "Just tell me what you need from Wendell, without the insults."

"A check!" she cried, veins flashing blue in her pale neck.

I cringed, stepping back in an autonomic response. This was the first time I'd met the woman, but her barely contained neurosis reminded me too much of my wealthy, pill-popping, perpetually dissatisfied in-laws, the ones Calvin had looked to for providing a functional foundation in life.

And look how well that worked out for him.

"Oh, God, Jack."

You want me to handle this, baby?

"No. Let her go."

Okay. Jack snorted. If you say so.

Virginia stomped her foot. "Wendell promised he'd help with our son's graduation party! Now June's almost here, and I haven't seen a cent! He keeps crying poverty, but just look at all this junk he's put around the house! Maybe I should just come in here one day, take a few things, and sell them on eBay. Then I'll have my money!"

"I'm sure it's an oversight," Brainert calmly replied. "Wendell's very proud of his son. He's mentioned setting up a generous trust fund for him. I'm sure he means to give you the money for the party. It's just that he's been busy with the theater opening and the festival-"

"That theater. That damn theater!" Virginia sneered. "I wouldn't be sorry to see it burn down."

For a moment, you could hear a pin drop. Then Maggie Kline stepped forward.

"You've gotten your answer, Mrs. Pepper," she said. "Wendell's not here, and frankly, we have things to do, so I'll show you to the door."

Virginia purpled. "I used to live here," she cried with a toss of her head. "I know where the front door is."

Maggie's eyes locked with hers. "Then use it."

With a huff, Virginia Pepper whirled on her flats and strode to the exit. All of a sudden she stumbled, awkwardly careening right into the closed door, her Botoxed forehead hitting the wood with a sharp thump. With a string of curses that would have made the Fisherman Detective blush, she opened it, stormed out, and slammed the door behind her.

Oops, said Jack. Guess there was a wrinkle in the carpet that wasn't there before.

"Jack! What did you do?"

I let her go, like you asked, doll. Right into the front door.

"Well, that was pleasant," Maggie said, her eyes dancing with amusement.

"Now you see why I'm a bachelor," Seymour said.

Maggie glanced at her wristwatch and faced Brainert. "Could you give me a lift to the Movie Town? It's a nice walk, but I'm running late."

"Of course," Brainert replied. "Are you rushing to catch a film?"

"No," she said, with a raised eyebrow. "I want to be there for Hedda Geist's appearance. It's scheduled right after Pierce Armstrong's. If she arrives on time, the two of them will finally meet after all these years. Now that would be something worth seeing, don't you agree?"

We all did agree. And as Maggie ran around, looking for her keys and handbag, I moved toward the house's vestibule. With the front door closed, I noticed an alcove off the entryway that I hadn't seen on our way in. It was the sort of recessed niche where a homeowner would typically display an antique grand-father clock. But there was no clock here.

A thin, rectangular glass case the height of a coffin occupied the space. Inside it hung a full-length evening gown, clearly a preserved piece of wardrobe. I moved closer, my eyes widening, as I realized the dress was made of shimmering silver satin. It had a plunging neckline and a tiny bow at the bodice.

"Jack, I can't believe it," I whispered. "It's the silver gown from Wrong Turn, the one that wasn't ripped at the shoulder!"

The one that turned up on Wilma Brody the night Irving Vreen was stabbed to death. Yeah, baby, I can see that. I just have one question.

"You don't have to tell me, Jack. I have the same question."

Good. Then maybe you can ask Wendell Pepper where the hell he found Hedda Geist's missing gown.