Alice Kimberley - The Ghost and the Femme Fatale

"I'll tell you what's even more coincidental."

"What's that?"

"According to Dr. Pepper, Wilma Brody died from a fall while horse back riding in the Hollywood hills."

"Horseback riding?" said Jack. "And didn't Hedda Geist tell you that she rides horses, too?"

I nodded. "She owns a horse farm in Newport. Said she still rides two hours a day."

"But she used to live in Los Angles with her husband, the TV executive. Think she was riding horses in California back in '66?"

"I glanced over my shoulder. "To quote Jack Shepard…'I'd bet the ranch, if I had a ranch.' "

Jack sat fully up, sweeping his legs off the coffee table. "One more question, sweetheart. Did ol' Dean Pepper happen to mention what age Wilma Brody was when her ticket got punched?"

"Actually, yes. He said she was young when she died, only thirty-three."

"Thirty-three in sixty-six. You know what that makes her in forty-eight?"

"Fifteen?"

"Jailbait. That's what that makes her."

Jack stood up from the sofa, began to pace the small living room. "That means District Attorney Nathan Burwell could have been blackmailed because he was committing statutory rape with the girl. The pieces are coming together now. At fifteen, Wilma Brody was a young Gotham Features actress. Dollars to donuts, she was just a poor little nobody like Hedda once was. Young Wilma probably worshipped Hedda Geist, the studio's biggest star. She would have done whatever Hedda asked."

"So you believe Hedda persuaded fifteen-year-old Wilma to seduce New York 's district attorney?"

"Yeah, baby." Jack nodded. "Somewhere down the line Hedda must have discovered that Burwell had a weakness for jailbait, so she set out to trap him using Wilma Brody. I doubt very much a girl like Wilma, working at a low-rent studio at the age of fifteen, would have had much in the way of prospects or wardrobe. Hedda probably gave the girl promises of bigger parts in her movies, gave her pretty dresses to wear on her dates with Burwell, more payoff for doing her bidding-"

"Including that slinky silver gown Wilma wore to the Porter-house the night Vreen was murdered!"

"Exactly."

"What about the car?" I asked. "The gull-gray Lincoln Continental cabriolet? How does that fit in?"

"Easy. When I saw that car parked outside the Hotel Chester the first night I tailed Burwell and his chippy, I saw silhouettes of a man and woman inside. It must have been Hedda and Pierce Armstrong, waiting for Wilma, watching to see if she could get the DA up to her room. Using the studio's car was smart. Since it wasn't registered with either of them, someone would really have to dig to connect Hedda or Pierce with the license plate."

"And what about the morning after Vreen's murder?" I asked. You said the Chester 's valet remembered Wilma being picked up by the same type of car."

"It had to be Hedda alone who picked up Wilma that morning after Vreen was stabbed. Once again, she was taking care of her young pawn, making sure the girl was spirited away so Burwell couldn't get to her anymore-and a detective like me couldn't get close to question her, either."

"But Benny showed us Pierce Armstrong's name in the log book for that morning," I reminded him.

Jack nodded. "Since Pierce was already in custody, I'm sure it was Hedda who signed his name, just to make sure she wasn't listed on any written record. Don't you remember what those two signatures looked like? The first one was done in big, bold block letters, but the second one-"

"-was in small fluid script, just like Hedda's signature at my bookstore signing," I finished for him. Then I took a breath, trying to add it all up. "So if Hedda was in league with Wilma, then she would have known when Nathan Burwell was taking her to the Porterhouse."

Jack nodded. "And she could have arranged to have the crime happen right in front of the DA."

I met Jack's stare. "So Pierce Armstrong was in on it all, too? Even Vreen's murder?"

"He must have been, doll. The whole scene that night played out like a B-movie script, with Pierce loudly announcing he had no beef with Irving. The guy was obviously trying to set up the accidental defense. Pierce was playing a part for Hedda. And the DA was his audience."

"If all that's true, Jack, then Hedda's actions that night at the Porterhouse were premeditated. She killed Irving Vreen in cold blood."

"Yeah, baby."

"But why?" I threw up my hands. "What could Hedda and Pierce, and Wilma, for that matter, have possibly gained? What was the conspiracy all about? When they killed Vreen, all they ended up doing was destroying the studio that employed them!"

"I can't answer that question for you, doll. Not without more pieces to this puzzle. I think, for the moment, we've reached a dead end."

I fell back against the lumpy sofa and sighed.

Jack sat down next to me again, draped a muscular arm across the sofa back. "Tired?"

"No," I said. "What I am is frustrated."

"Oh?" the PI arched an eyebrow. Then he gave me a little smile. "That I can take care of." He leaned closer.

"Jaaack… I'm not frustrated that way!"

My pathetic push against his rock-solid chest was enough to make him pause. "Then what did you mean, baby?" he asked with a sigh.

"I don't know… I guess I mean I just need more info, too. Whatever happened to your own case back here? I mean after you caught that private eye tailing you. Was he working for

Hedda Geist?" "No."

"Who then? Did you ever find out?"

Jack sighed again, leaned back a little. "You really want to know?" "Sure."

"Then close your eyes." "Jaaack… "

"No funny business. I promise. So close 'em…"

I did.

JACK KEPT HIS promise. There was no funny business next. Just business. When I opened my eyes again, I found myself standing in front of a polished oak apartment door in the hall of a grand Park Avenue building.

Jack was looking spiffy in his brand-new blue suit, his face freshly shaved. He rang the apartment's bell and waited.

"Where are we?" I whispered.

"Nathan Burwell's penthouse."

"What? You're bracing the district attorney?!"

Jack smirked. "I can be wild, baby. But I'm not crazy. Nathan's not home at the moment."

The door opened. A young maid greeted us and showed us inside. "I'll get Mrs. Burwell," she said and disappeared.

The entryway where we were standing was brightly lit and stacked with trunks and suitcases. I could see a luxurious living room beyond a short hallway. Half of the room appeared to be packed up in boxes.

"Mr. Shepard, thank you for coming."

Jack gave a curt nod to the tall, slender woman. She was middle-aged, dressed in a beautifully tailored wool suit with stylishly padded shoulders, but her bobbed black hairdo looked more like it belonged in the 1920s than the late 1940s.

"I got your message," Jack said.

"Yes, well, let's not prolong this. Here you are." Mrs. Burwell held out a thick envelope. "This should end our contract."

Jack hesitated before taking the pay. "If you don't mind, Mrs. Burwell, I'd like to know why?"

"Why?"

"Why you suddenly changed your mind about having your husband investigated," Jack said stiffly. "Why you expressed no interest in seeing my report or my photographs or anything in my files."

"Well, I, just… don't need to…"

Jack glanced at the trunks and suitcases. "So you're leaving?"

Mrs. Burwell nodded. "Nathan's letting me go. There's no problem anymore. He won't fight my request for a divorce, won't fight for custody of our daughters, won't even fight me on taking my money with me. So, you see, it's all worked out." "And what changed his mind? Did you tell him you hired me?"

"No. I didn't."

"Well, Mrs. Burwell, I've got news for you: A scumbag shamus tried to get the drop on me last night. Only I got the drop on him. The man's name was Egbert P. King. I called around and found out he works for Dibell Investigations. You know who they are?"