Alice Kimberley - The Ghost and the Femme Fatale

"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."