Alice Kimberley - The Ghost and the Femme Fatale

"Okay, buddy!" Seymour shouted. "Hedda signed your book. Now move along! Give someone else a chance!"

As the crowd dwindled down, I stepped up to Hedda.

"More water, Ms. Geist?"

"Yes… unless you have a good bottle of California Sauvignon Blanc handy?" She smiled. "My late husband had friends who owned a vineyard in Napa. I'm a sucker for a good Sav."

"Sorry, no wine," I said. "We tried serving alcohol once at a signing but our local councilwoman fined us for not having a liquor license."

"What a shame."

I opened a fresh bottle of water and cleared my throat. With the signing almost over, I knew this was the best chance I had to ask the former actress a few more questions.

"I was wondering, Ms. Geist," I began, as I refilled her cup. "Did you hear about Dr. Lilly?"

"Terrible business…" Hedda shook her head, but her eyes remained down, focused on the table and the book she was signing. "A tragic accident to be sure…"

"Just like last evening," I replied. "That large, heavy speaker falling onto the stage."

"Oh, yes!" She straightened immediately and met my eyes. "I was quite put out. It could have killed me!"

"Or Dr. Lilly," I noted.

"Oh, no!" Hedda frowned. "You're mistaken, Mrs. McClure. Dr. Lilly stepped aside to let me speak. She was completely clear of danger when that speaker careened toward the stage and nearly finished me!"

With wide dramatic eyes Hedda stared at me a moment, then she turned back to the crowd, her expression instantly transforming into a warm smile as she waved the next customer forward.

"Come, come!" she said brightly. "Step up!" "Okay," I silently told Jack, "that was weird." Jack snorted. Once a diva, always a diva. "Or drama queen… "

A rose by any other name… still wants the spotlight.

Clearing my throat, I stepped closer to the former actress. "I was wondering something else, Ms. Geist," I said quietly as she signed the next customer's book. "Did you know about Dr. Lilly's new publication?"

"What's that, Mrs. McClure? You say Dr. Lilly had a new book?"

"Yes, but it wasn't a film study like her other titles. This book was a biography of your life and career, and it made quite a few rather sensational charges at the end of it."

"Is that so?" Hedda finished signing and handed the book back to the young woman. She waved the next customer forward, a young man wearing a St. Francis College T-shirt.

"You know, it's sad." She glanced at me, then back down at the book she was signing. "There are so many desperate writers out there like Irene Lilly, hacking out some story that wouldn't have existed in the first place if it weren't for people like me, people with innate talent who risked and toiled to become recognized figures. They're rather like parasites, don't you think?"

"Dr. Lilly claims in this new book that Irving Vreen's death wasn't an accident. She claims that Pierce Armstrong was set up and betrayed. She claims that what happened at the Porter-house restaurant in 1948 was calculated, premeditated. Cold-blooded murder."

Hedda ignored me for a moment, handed the book she'd just signed to the young man and waved at the next person to step up. It was another young man, a very handsome one wearing a fraternity jacket. She winked flirtatiously at the boy and laughed.

"What do you think, young man?" she teased. "Have I still got it?"

He laughed and nodded vigorously, his cheeks reddening. She giggled like a young girl, then opened his book and began to sign.

"You know, Mrs. McClure…" She looked my way, then back to the book. "Another ambitious writer once tried to stir the pot, just like Dr. Lilly. This was back in 1966, before you were even born."

"What happened?" I pressed.

"This young man, a magazine journalist, tracked me down, tried to shock me with allegations and pointed questions. I had nothing to say, of course. He dug and dug but found nothing and simply gave up. Nobody really cared anymore, you see? It was all played out already. Irving Vreen was long dead by then. And nobody really cares about the dead. To the living, they're just… irrelevant."

Speak for yourself, you old bag!

"Easy, Jack."

I'll show the self-satisfied biddy how irrelevant the dead are!

"No, Jack. No more haunting the customers! You promised!" Just a little levitating table action, baby. Maybe blow some frigid wind up her pristine pants. "Jack! Behave!"

Why? If I give her a heart attack, maybe she'll finally see how irrelevant she really is.

Hedda smiled and shook her head, as if amused. "Later, in the seventies," she went on, "there was a famous episode of an old television police show that was a thinly disguised version of what happened that night at the Porterhouse. The show cast me as the kind of femme fatale I played on screen, tried to say that I planned Irving 's death. But that was a television show. Complete fiction. Just like Dr. Lilly's book…"

My brow wrinkled. "I thought you said that you didn't know about her book."

"I don't. I just…" Hedda shrugged. "I simply assumed from what you've told me that she was trying to do what that journalist had tried to do: dredge up an ugly incident for her own gain."

"I haven't read the entire book yet," I admitted. " But Dr. Lilly may have found proof to substantiate her charges."

Hedda sighed. "Well, if she didn't put it in the book, I guess we'll never know, will we? I mean…" The elderly actress fixed her cool green gaze on me. "We can't very well ask her now, can we?"

"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 decades… 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 decades… 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?"