Alice Kimberley - The Ghost and the Femme Fatale

He groaned, his eyelids fluttered and he slowly sat up. "Oh, my head. Those SOBs… they didn't give me a chance…"

"What happened?"

"I got jumped. A couple of goons were in here riffling through my files. I'm pretty sure one of them was our old friend Egbert. They must have heard me coming because they were hiding when I opened the door. Then wham!" He gingerly touched the lump swelling on his forehead.

"What did they want, Jack?"

The PI slowly rose from the floor. I helped him get to his feet. Once he was steady, he walked over to his secretary's desk.

"It's gone," he said with a disgusted exhale. "I figured it would be. Everything was right here and they took it. The reports, the photos…"

"Nathan Burwell's file?"

"Yeah, baby. Even if I'd wanted to turn him into the feds or the state bar, I'd have no evidence to back my story. They took it all."

"So that's why you told me what you did the other day-not to bother looking for the file."

"Yeah." He patted the breast pocket of his suit jacket. "Mrs. Burwell's envelope's gone, too. The DA's hired goons took it all."

"All that money? Oh, Jack… "

"Looks like its back to the salt mines for me. But it's not a total wipe. I still got you as a secretary-"

"Excuse me? Don't you mean partner?"

"Partner, huh?" Jack shook his head. "I don't know…"

"After all we've been through, don't you think I've earned it?"

The PI's lips lifted ever so slightly. "I'll have to think about it."

"Fine. You just call me when you're done thinking about it-"

Jack caught my wrist before I could walk away. "Dames. Why are they so much trouble?" "I'm no trouble!"

"Oh, yeah? Let's test that theory. C'mere…"

Jack jerked me close, into his arms. He kissed me and I kissed him right back. Then his lips were on my cheek, my jaw, my neck.

"Oh, Jack… " I sighed. "That feels like heaven… " I closed my eyes, wanting the feeling to go on forever- Ring-ring! Ring-ring! Ring-ring! Ring-ring!

I OPENED MY eyes. Sunlight was blasting through my window pane, morning had come without notice, and I was alone in bed. Jack's body was gone. His arms were no longer around me. His kisses had faded on the last wisp of dream.

Ring- ring! Ring- ring!

Ring- ring! Ring- ring!

Ring- ring!-

I sat up and slapped off my plastic alarm clock with enough force to crack the case.

BUD NAPP SLAMMED his ball peen hammer on the table. "Motion carried," proclaimed the hardware store owner. "I'll draft a letter of protest to the mayor today, and deliver it in person first thing Monday morning."

He set the hammer down and lifted his paper cup of coffee. Bud paused, the cup halfway to his lips. "I'll inform 'his honor' that every member of this organization refuses to pay these unfair fines-and I can't wait to see the look on that mealy-mouthed politician's face."

Getting every last one of the Quibblers-aka, the Quindicott Business Owners Association-to attend a meeting at eight-thirty on a Sunday morning might have seemed insane a week ago. But a second round of two-hundred-dollar littering tickets written to every business on Cranberry Street automatically rendered everyone fit for a straightjacket.

The previous evening's Film Festival party on the Commons had left a pile of trash on the city streets, and the mayor decided to levy punishing fines on all of the business owners to cover the cost of clean-up.

As soon as Bud found the ticket plastered to his hardware store's front door, he made a few phone calls. He discovered, after dragging the police chief out of bed, that Ciders had been leaned on by the mayor, who was threatened with political punishment by none other than Councilwoman Marjorie Binder-Smith-and her wealthy Larchmont Avenue backers. So Bud had called this emergency meeting.

"Enough is enough," said Gerry Kovacks, owner of Cellular Planet. Like everyone else, Gerry had arrived at his business this morning and found the littering ticket taped to his door. "It isn't fair. We pay taxes already. Too damn many taxes, too!"

"You go get them good, Bud Napp," cried Mr. Koh, owner of the local grocery store. Then he ripped his ticket up and scattered the confetti-sized pieces across my hardwood floor.

"We've got to fight," Danny Boggs declared. "No way I can afford four hundred bucks worth of fines in a single weekend."

Seymour, who was sitting between Sadie and me, jumped to his feet. "I found a ticket on my ice-cream truck this morning. I don't control what those little bastards do with the ice cream wrappers after I sell them! This is fascism-and I know governmental persecution when I see it! I'm a federal employee!"

"What we need is a rebellion," Milner Logan cried. He punctuated his call with a militant power fist in the air. "Power to the self-employed business owners!"

Although Milner looked the part of an aging radical, the long straight ponytail that flowed down his broad back wasn't part of a political statement. He was one-quarter-blood Narragansett Native American and had worn his hair that way since childhood.

Milner and his wife, Linda Cooper-Logan, should have been at their bakery now, with Sunday being their busiest morning. But they were both so furious about the tickets, they'd entrusted their business to a pair of part-time workers to make their voices heard.

Linda ran an agitated hand through her short, spiky Annie Lennox eighties hair. "I can't believe it's come to this!"

"Well it has," said Glenn Hastings of Hastings Pharmacy. "And it's all because of one woman. Marjorie Binder-Smith!"

You'd have thought we were in the Movie Town Theater, watching a Boris and Natasha cartoon, the way everyone in the Community Events room booed the municipal-zoning witch. When the curses and catcalls faded, Aunt Sadie spoke up.

"Why don't you tell them your news, Bud?"

"News?" Fiona Finch asked, sitting up straighter. "What news?"

Sadie grinned. "Bud has big news!"

Standing on the raised platform, Bud nodded and rested the palms of his hands on the table.

"I don't know about the rest of you, but I've had it with this town's prohibitive business taxes, stifling regulations, and outdated zoning codes. I think it's time somebody stepped up and took the system on-starting with the municipal zoning witch herself. That's why I'm running for Marjorie Binder-Smith's seat on the city council this fall!"

The Quibblers greeted the news with loud applause and shouts of support.

"It won't be easy," Bud warned, "since the councilwoman has had the backing of the town's wealthiest residents for years. They're fat, happy property owners who don't want our Cranberry Street business district to expand. But times are changing in Quindicott. We haven't seen better days in decades, and it's because of us! Our hard work! They thumb their nose at capitalists, but we don't have old money accruing oodles of interest in stocks and bonds and Caribbean bank accounts. We have to work for our living! And I promise you that I'll protect our interests and give my best if you see me through to victory!"

Everyone applauded and shouted their support; some even rushed up to Bud to shake his hand.

"Wow," Seymour said, sitting beside me. "I've never heard Bud talk like that before."

Sadie smiled and nodded. "He said he got inspired watching speech-makers on the History Channel."

"The History Channel?" Seymour frowned. "Then you'd better keep him away from the German documentaries."

"What do you mean?"