Изменить стиль страницы

Jack shrugged. "Dollars to donuts he's about to add it to the flame-broiled menu."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, doll, that there aren't going to be many on-the-record witnesses to tonight's little 'accident,' because the Porterhouse's book of reservations is about to go up in flames."

Ring-ring! Ring-ring!

"Jack, what's that?" We were moving with the crowd out of the dining room and into the dimly lit reception area. "Did somebody hit the fire alarm?" Ring-ring!

"There's no alarm, baby. What are you talking about?"

"The ringing, Jack! Don't you hear it?"

Ring-ring!

We were in the small reception area now, shoulder to shoulder with the other patrons. There was so little light I could hardly see a thing. Then I couldn't feel Jack anymore. His hand had let go of my arm!

"Jack?"

Ring-ring!

"Jack! Where are you? Don't leave me!"

I peered into the darkness, but I couldn't see him. I couldn't stop, either; the crowd just kept carrying me forward. But I didn't know where I was going. I had to let Jack know where I was. I couldn't do this without him! Squeezing my eyes shut, I cried as loudly as I could-

"Jaack!"

I OPENED MY eyes. Light was streaming in from my bedroom window. It was morning.

Ring-ring!

Ring-ring!

Ring-ring!

Ring-ring!

I sat up, breathing hard, and slapped off my alarm clock.

CHAPTER 4. Death in the Past Tense

I'm in the movie business, darling. I can't afford your acute attacks of integrity.

– The Big Knife, 1955

"HEY, MOM, ANY hopheads or grape cats in that movie you saw last night?"

Okay, there was a time when I would've dropped the buttermilk pancakes on the kitchen floor after hearing those phrases coming out of my son's eleven-year-old mouth. But given my disturbing dream of the night before, it would've taken a lot more than that for Spencer to rattle me.

I calmly set the warm plate in front of him. "So you learned some new vocabulary on the Intrigue Channel."

Spencer snatched the bottle of Vermont maple syrup and began to pour. "How about whistle bait?" he asked brightly. "Any saucy tomatoes?"

"You're a little too young to know about 'whistle bait'-and hopheads for that matter." I tightened the belt of my terrycloth robe. "What were you watching, anyway? An old Mike Hammer episode?"

"Actually, it was a Naked City marathon," said Spencer around his first gooey mouthful of pancakes.

"That old show from the sixties? I didn't know they were running those things."

Spencer nodded. "It was way wicked, Mom. One episode was about a dancing girl who fell down a flight of stairs during a party. Only she didn't 'fall,' you see what I'm getting at?"

"Yes, but you know what I think-" "Somebody pushed her!"

I adjusted my black rectangular glasses. "You know what I think, Spencer?"

"What?"

"There are eight million stories in the Naked City, but you're not old enough to watch any of them yet." Reaching over with a napkin, I wiped a dribble of syrup from his chin. He waved my hand away-a big boy now.

"I got it, Mom."

"I can't believe Bonnie let you stay up to watch that show."

"Bonnie" was Bonnie Franzetti, my son's babysitter, and sister of my late brother's best friend, Eddie Franzetti. The Franzettis owned a successful pizza restaurant on Cranberry Street, but Eddie hadn't followed the family tradition. Instead, he'd become an officer on the Quindicott police force.

"The marathon started at seven," said Spencer. "Anyway, it was no big deal. I usually stay up until ten anyway."

I had the sneaking suspicion Spencer had stayed up later than ten, mostly because it was harder than usual to wake him up this morning-after my own alarm clock had nearly given me a heart attack, that is.

"Enough talk. Finish your pancakes. The coach will be here any minute to pick you up."

"Okey-dokey," Spencer replied, attempting an impression of Edward G. Robinson.

Minutes later, I was shoving my bare feet into penny loafers and we were heading downstairs. I grabbed the store keys from behind the counter and let Spencer out to meet Coach Farmer's minivan. Today was Saturday, no school, but there was an all-day baseball clinic for the regional Little League teams, and Spencer was eager to get tips on fielding and batting.

"See you, Mom!"

I waved to the coach and locked the door again. That's when Jack finally made an appearance.

Was that kid trying to sound like Little Caesar? 'Cause he sounded more like Spanky from Our Gang.

"Edward G. Robinson has become one of Spencer's favorite

Intrigue Channel tough guys-second only to Jack Shield. I haven't the heart to tell him his imitation is a little off."

Maybe Spence should wait until he gets a little hair on his lip, or at least until his voice changes-

"Okay! End of conversation."

I glanced at my wristwatch. It was not yet eight, but with two hours remaining before we opened our doors, there was still plenty to do. I went back upstairs to shower and dress. After blowing out my shoulder-length auburn hair, I buttoned on a simple cream-colored blouse, stepped into pressed black slacks, and returned to the shop to open the register and boot up our computer system.

For years, my aunt Sadie had run the Quindicott shop just as her late father had-that is to say, she received book deliveries and placed them on the shelves for loyal customers to wander in and purchase at their leisure. But as the store's loyal customer base gradually died off and the town fell on hard times, Sadie prepared to pack it in, too. That's when I offered an alternative, along with much of the check from my late husband's life insurance policy.

With the ready cash, we remodeled the dusty old shop, overhauled the inventory, opened the Community Events space in the adjoining storefront, and launched a marketing campaign and Internet site. Sadie had always been New England practical, so she'd been tense about spending the money, especially when it came to mortgaging her original store to expand our space for special events. But now our business was going gangbusters. And this weekend was shaping up to be an especially profitable one for us.

I was just starting to tidy up the front display tables when Aunt Sadie finally made an appearance. She looked lovely this morning in tweedy brown slacks and a forest-green boatneck sweater, which nicely set off her short, newly colored auburn hair.

Dyeing her hair was about the only vanity Sadie allowed herself. She had a few pieces of jewelry, but seldom wore them. Necklaces were "plain useless" and "a waste of money," whereas a chain to hold reading glasses, now that had a functional purpose-which is why she had a serious variety of chains in her collection (today's consisted of small pink seashells). But that was Sadie Thornton: as averse to unnecessary ornamentations as a Shaker chair.

I noticed she was limping as she came down the stairs, which was unusual for my usually spry auntie.

"Backache?" I asked, pushing up my black glasses.

Sadie shrugged. "I woke up in the middle of the night with a sharp pain in my side. I thought it came from sitting so long in that movie theater seat, until I found my remote control underneath me on the mattress." She shook her head. "I don't know how the thing got there."

"I'm pretty sure I do," I said with a sigh. "There was a Naked City marathon on TV last night-"

"Spencer?"

"I'm betting Bonnie sent him off to bed, not realizing there was another television in the apartment." My suspicions vindicated, I shrugged. "That's one mystery solved, at least…"

"What do you mean one mystery?" Sadie's eyes met mine. "Is there another?"