Alice Kimberley - The Ghost and the Femme Fatale

The buzzer rang. I glanced at Sadie. "A delivery on Sunday?"

She shrugged and ran to answer the door, then returned to the Community Events room with a special-delivery envelope in her hand. "It's here!" she cried.

Seymour blinked. "What's here?"

"Pen asked me to hunt up a book on the history of Gotham Features," she replied as she pulled a battered hardcover from the package. "This book was published in the early 1950s, after Gotham went belly-up. I had it sent overnight from a used book dealer in Ann Arbor, Michigan. That and the Sunday delivery cost more than the book itself, so I hope it helps!"

Sadie tried to pass the book to Fiona, but the innkeeper threw up her hands. "Sorry, I don't have time to read a book today," she said. "The big film festival dinner is being held tonight at Chez Finch. I've got too much to do!"

"That's the costume thing," Milner said, grinning. "I'm coming as Sam Spade."

"Costume?" Bud groaned. "It that really necessary?"

"I expect everyone to arrive dressed as their favorite film noir character," Fiona sniffed, her chin high. "It's required." "Another fascist," Seymour griped. "I heard that," Fiona snapped.

"Prove to me that you're not a storm trooper. Sell me those nautical paintings in the lighthouse." "Forget it, mailman!"

Bud groaned again, still pondering the dinner. "Maybe I'll come as Tarzan. Can't think of an easier-or cheaper- costume."

Aunt Sadie laughed. "Bud Napp in a leaf-covered Speedo?" She winked playfully at her beau. "Now that would be a sight I'd like to see."

"Except it won't fit with the theme," Fiona pointed out.

"It will if I throw a trench coat over it." said Bud with a wink of his own for Sadie.

"Careful, Bud," Seymour said with a snort. "In this town, they'll arrest you for dressing like a flasher."

Sadie tucked the book under her arm. "I'll read this myself for clues, Penelope, and jot down anything curious I notice in the text."

I smiled. "Thanks. And try to keep a running list of names you come across. If Pierce Armstrong is our murderer, it's likely he has an accomplice. I'll bring Brainert the list you make. He can cross-check it with the guest list and subscribers who bought tickets for the festival. Who knows, we might get lucky and find another person here at the festival who was associated with Gotham Features."

"My money's definitely on Pierce Armstrong as the guilty party," Milner said.

"Well, if he is guilty," said Seymour, "Pierce either has an accomplice, like Pen said, or he's faking his condition and doesn't really need that wheelchair."

"Maybe it's about time we question the Fisherman Detective," I said. "Throw a few accusations his way and see if he'll bite."

Ouch, baby. And you thought my jokes were bad?

"SPEED UP, PEN. I want this coffee to be nice and hot when we get to Dr. Pepper's crib."

Brainert, Seymour, and I were piled into my Saturn, its battery recharged, thanks to Seymour 's ice-cream truck. And though our mission was urgent, Seymour insisted we stop at the Cooper Family Bakery for coffee and doughnuts.

Milner's lighter-than-air specialties were devoured by all three of us inside of two minutes. We'd all downed small, hot coffees, too. But then Seymour insisted on getting another, extra-l arge Mocha Java to go. Now he was in my backseat, cradling a full cup of steaming joe between his knees.

"You'll never finish that overdose of caffeine before we get to Wendell's house," Brainert complained.

"That's the point, Brainiac," Seymour replied. "I'm not going to drink it, I'm going to spill it."

"Spill it!" Brainert cried. "Spill it where?"

Seymour arched an eyebrow. "On Pierce Armstrong. I'm going to pretend to drink it, and then kind of 'accidentally' dump it on his legs. If Armstrong jumps out of that wheelchair, spry as an athlete, we'll know he's faking his condition!"

Brainert blinked once then squeezed his eyes shut. "My god. You are an idiot."

"Why? What do you think will happen, genius?"

"I think the old man will scream as the scalding liquid burns his flesh. Then we'll call an ambulance, and you'll be arrested at the hospital for assault."

Seymour squinted. "You're just jealous I thought of it first."

Brainert massaged his temples. "Armstrong's not a paraplegic, you dunderhead! Wendell told me he suffers from advanced arthritis, caused by all the injuries he suffered during his career as a stunt man."

"Oh," Seymour said. His shoulders slumped.

I pulled up to the curb. "We're here. Don't spill that coffee as you get out."

At the front door, Brainert buzzed several times, but no one answered. He knocked and tested the knob. The door was unlocked. We exchanged surprised glances.

"Wait," I said. "Take a look around. Did someone try to break in?"

Seymour stepped up and examined the wooden door, then the doorjamb and screen door. He shook his head. "No damage. The door was unlocked, that's all. Maybe somebody's home… in the cellar or attic or something and can't hear the buzzer."

Brainert pushed the door open and stepped inside. "Dean Pepper? Wendell?" His voice rang hollow in the yellow foyer. The framed one-sheet of Taxi Driver loomed over us. De Niro's Travis Bickle was giving me the creeps. Seymour must have noticed.

"Gee," he joked, elbowing me, "I hope that witchy ex-wife of the dean's didn't murder his prune-flavored ass."

Brainert glared. "That's not funny, Seymour."

"Who's being funny? Virginia Pepper is one scary tomato."

"I was referring to your jibe at Wendell's name-Dr. Pepper being a prune-flavored soft drink." He looked away. "Your remarks about Virginia 's violent tendencies are another matter entirely."

"You mean they're justified."

"Maybe." Brainert called out again, louder this time. "Wendell! Are you there, man?"

Seymour pushed past him impatiently and started looking around.

Brainert frowned. " Seymour, stop, we really shouldn't be here… "

"The door was open. Either someone is at home and didn't hear us at the door, or the house has been burglarized. In that case, it's our civic duty to investigate. And since I'm a federal employee-"

"You're a postman, Tarnish, not an FBI agent! It's our civic duty to call the police if we think something is wrong." Brainert fumbled inside his beige sports coat and pulled out his cell phone.

"You call. I'm checking things out."

Seymour kept walking. I followed. Nothing in the front of the house appeared disturbed-yet I felt the hackles rising on the back of my neck. Something wasn't right.

"Jack?" I silently whispered.

I'm here, doll. I got your back.

Seymour moved to the staircase and called upstairs. I cautiously entered the living room, afraid of what I might find. I spied a pair of men's shoes beside the couch and a glass of water on the coffee table, but the room was empty.

I heard Seymour calling as he climbed the stairs to the second floor, "Mr. Armstrong? Are you up here?"

As Brainert followed Seymour, I moved to the back of the house, hoping to find someone in the kitchen.

I arrived at the dining room first. The only sound here was the persistent bubbling of the fish tank. Morning sun streamed through the window, illuminating tiny dust motes in the air. They floated in front of the framed one- sheet of the James Bond Thunderball movie.

My gaze moved to the mahogany sideboard, and I realized that something wasn't right. A metal display stand was sitting there, empty. The prop it held was missing. Where was the heavy speargun from Thunderball? The one Seymour had admired?

"Virginia Pepper," I whispered.