Alice Kimberley - The Ghost and the Femme Fatale

– Sunset Boulevard, 1950

I HURRIED ONTO the bookshop's selling floor. Hedda Geist-Middleton was standing near the front door, surveying the crowded aisles with the regal mannerisms of a minor monarch.

"I'm ready for my signing," she announced after I introduced myself.

And her close-up, Jack quipped in my head. I see the old broad's returned to the scene of the crime.

"If she's guilty."

True… if…

Jack's jaundiced tone made me take a closer look at Hedda. As I shared pleasantries with the former actress-asking about her stay at the Finch Inn, explaining how our signings work-I tried to assess what the woman was capable of.

Despite her advanced age, Hedda Geist still glowed with charisma and energy. She was tall, lean, and didn't appear particularly delicate or fragile. Mostly, she projected class and elegance. Her silk blouse of emerald green perfectly matched her famous catlike eyes. Her cream-colored crepe slacks draped like filmy curtains; a wide belt of hand-tooled leather cinched them fashionably at the hip. Her silver-white hair was neatly pinned back to show off platinum earrings.

Even her perfume was unique and elegant-a distinctly delicate scent of orange blossoms. I'd never smelled a scent like it.

It was hard not to admire the elderly lady. Her confidence was magnetic and she spoke with eloquence and power.

"Could Brainert possibly be right?" I quietly wondered.

Right about what? Jack suddenly challenged. Spill, baby…

"It's true that Hedda was reckless when she was younger. She threw over her actor boyfriend for the married head of her studio, and when the two men confronted each other, she was caught in a horrifying position. But that doesn't necessarily make the woman a murderer, does it?"

Go on…

"What if the real femme fatale here isn't Hedda Geist? What if Brainert's right? What if it's Dr. Lilly?"

"What if" don't pay the rent, baby. You've got to sell me.

"Think about it, Jack. For years Irene Lilly's been living in the academic shadows. Her backlist film studies were never big sellers-there are hundreds of books like them, carrying the same sorts of essays and retrospectives. Perhaps Dr. Lilly wanted to come out of the shadows for once in her career, not to mention make certain her retirement nest would be well feathered."

You're saying Dr. Lilly was peddling pabulum and knew it?

"A PhD at the end of your name doesn't grant you a halo. Publish or perish is an academic credo, and I know for a fact that stress can drive some professors to rather unethical ends-"

Just a guess, baby, but I'm thinking my idea of "unethical ends" may be a tad different than yours.

"I'm talking about professors who hire professional writers to ghost their papers, even entire books. And I'm not saying Dr. Lilly did that. I'm simply saying she might have chucked academic honesty out the window. Maybe she never had any evidence about Hedda Geist's past. Maybe Irene Lilly simply wanted to use that dark moment at the Porterhouse restaurant to gain media attention for an otherwise ordinary biography."

So you think our dead Lilly just wanted big headlines?

"Today's news business is a pretty hungry monster: 24/7 cable news, thousands of Internet sites globally. Leveling sensational charges would have gotten the book some sort of attention, even if the charges were ultimately unsubstantiated."

I flashed back on the image of what Jack had showed me at the Porterhouse. When Irving Vreen had fallen on that steak knife, the young Hedda's horrified reaction appeared real enough to me. She seemed genuinely shocked that she'd stabbed the man.

Sure she did, baby, Jack whispered in my head, but then Hedda was one of the best actresses around, wasn't she?

"True."

Appearing as anything the script called for was her specialty. Just like now…

"What do you mean?"

Queen Hedda of Newport, daughter of old money. It's an act, baby, just another part. Remember what you read in that book about her childhood? The broad wasn't born the daughter of royalty or privilege. Back in my time, the dame grew up with a fishmonger's accent, in the shadow of those Long Island City smokestacks we drove by.

"True… Dr. Lilly did bring up some pretty ugly details from her youth. With Hedda and her family trying so hard to maintain the upper-class image, the book could prove embarrassing…"

Yeah, baby. It could.

I swallowed uneasily, seeing a brand-new motive for Hedda to want Lilly killed-along with the book's publicity.

But could Hedda have done away with Dr. Lilly all by herself? Brainert had characterized Hedda as frail and old. While her age was obvious, I wondered how "frail" she really was.

Time to go fishing, sweetheart.

"Right," I told Jack. Then I turned to Hedda.

"We have quite a lot of customers queued up for your signing in the Events room, Ms. Geist. How's your strength? Do you feel up to this?"

Hedda waved her hand, flashing more platinum on two diamond rings. "I still ride two hours every day on my horse farm," she said with a proud little smile. "I think I can handle scribbling my name on a few books."

She gestured to someone behind me. I turned to find her granddaughter, Harmony, standing there. The young woman looked as stunning as ever in a belly-baring white tank and a low-riding skirt of designer denim. Her layered blonde hair was loose, her pretty feet at the end of long, tanned legs, were manicured with pink nail polish and caressed by sandals of Italian leather.

I greeted her, counting at least three small groups of young men who were either gaping openly in her direction or glancing furtively at her backside while whispering among themselves. I didn't see Dixon Gallagher among the admiring males-and none of them looked big enough to be that Darth Vader biker who'd run me down in the woods near Charity Point.

Ignoring the lump that still throbbed high on my forehead, I clapped my hands and brightly suggested, "Shall we move into the Events room?"

Both women followed me into the large space, where a crowd had been marshaled into a civilized queue, thanks to Seymour Tarnish. "Don't push, people! There are plenty of Hedda's books available. I said, don't push! That means you, buster!"

The fans were all ages and they began to applaud and whistle when they saw Hedda enter the room. The old actress smiled, obviously pleased, and gave her adoring fans a royal wave. I showed her where to sit.

She took her time settling herself into the padded armchair behind the polished walnut table. "Is there water, Mrs. McClure?"

"Yes, of course." I presented her with a sealed bottle. She eyed it with a frown of obvious disapproval. I got the hint, opened it, and poured it into a paper cup.

Hedda took a sip and cleared her throat. "Now… where are my special pens? Harmony!"

Harmony stepped up and provided them. "Here you are, Grandma."

"Thank you, Harmony. You're such a dear! Enjoy yourself now, darling. Why don't you select some books for your summer reading. My treat."

Harmony smiled, nodded at me, and wandered off toward the selling floor-the eyes of just about every male in the room watching her leave.

The signing went fairly smoothly after that, with the exception of a plump older man in a sports jacket who attempted to monopolize Hedda with gushing tales of his fandom.

"…and I have every poster on my wall and a signed photograph from the publicity department of Gotham Features. Oh, how I treasure that photo. I can't believe I'm here talking to you. To finally smell your perfume is a thrill for me." The man made a show of inhaling the air. "Ah… that delicate orange-blossom scent. I read in your book how a French admirer sent you a bottle of Vouloir from Paris, and it's the only perfume you've ever worn since. Your signature scent. I can finally smell it for myself. Intoxicating! Now, let me ask you about playing opposite Pierce Armstrong in-"