Scowling, Brainert pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his blue blazer. Before he could dial Dr. Pepper's number, however, Aunt Sadie stuck her head through the stock room door.

"Sorry to interrupt," she said softly.

"Aunt Sadie!" I approached her with a copy of Murdered in Plain Sight. "Do me a favor. Is Spencer home from his Little League clinic?"

"Yes, he just got back. He headed upstairs to play a video game, but he asked for permission to go to his best friend Danny's house tonight for dinner and a sleepover in Danny's new tent. Sounds like fun. Apparently, Mr. Keenan just set it up in their backyard."

"A sleepover in a tent…?" I frowned, my mind shifting gears to mother mode. I couldn't help worrying about everything Spencer might need for an outing like that-PJ's that were warm enough for a May evening, his sleeping bag, toothbrush, underwear. It might get pretty chilly so he'd need extra blankets, a sweatshirt. And all of that would be hard to carry. I checked my watch and shook my head. I couldn't drive Spencer over to Danny's house! My Saturn's battery was still dead, and-

You're being a real Killjoy Jane, you know that?

"Excuse me, Jack," I silently told the ghost, "but this doesn't concern you-"

That kid's no infant. He can carry his own kit across town, for cripes sake. What's the problem? He got an invite from his best friend. Let him play Davy Crockett for a night if he wants to.

"The problem is…" I started to argue, but then I stopped myself. "Wait. Did you just say he got an invite from his best friend?"

Wake up, Wanda.

I blinked. Spencer never had a best friend before. Oh, he'd been friendly with classmates back in the city, but he'd been so shy and morose when Calvin was alive-wilting in his father's depressive shadow.

Things were different now. And Spencer was different, too. He'd been in the same class with Danny Keenan for the past year, but it was only lately, since Little League had begun, that the two had become really tight. I hated to admit it, but Jack was right. This invitation was important. And it was exactly the reason I'd moved back to Quindicott, so Spencer could get away from his worries, make friends, enjoy the world around him, enjoy living.

I faced Aunt Sadie. "Do you think Danny's mother or father could pick Spencer up? My car's battery is still dead."

Sadie smiled. "I'm sure they'd be happy to do that."

"Well, if not… I can always ask Seymour to help out and drive him over. Either way, it's okay." I nodded. "Tell Spencer he's allowed to spend the night at Danny's.

Nice call, baby.

"Thanks, Jack," I whispered to the ghost-and then I remembered Dr. Lilly's book in my hands. "Oh! Aunt Sadie, one more thing: Ask Spencer to run this book over to Fiona Finch. She'll know what to do with it."

Overhearing me, Brainert groaned. "You're not bringing Fiona into this?"

"She's already involved, Brainiac," Seymour informed him.

"And she's a true-crime expert," I added. "I want her opinion of what Dr. Lilly's written."

"Good idea," said Aunt Sadie, taking the book from my hands. "But the reason I came back here wasn't to tell you that Spencer was home."

"What's up?"

"I wanted to let you know that Ms. Hedda Geist-Middleton has just entered the bookshop with her granddaughter, Harmony."

CHAPTER 13. Once a Diva

I HURRIED ONTO the bookshop's selling floor. Hedda Geist-Middleton was standing near the front door, surveying the crowded aisles with the regal mannerisms of a minor monarch.

"I'm ready for my signing," she announced after I introduced myself.

And her close-up, Jack quipped in my head. I see the old broad's returned to the scene of the crime.

"If she's guilty."

True… if…

Jack's jaundiced tone made me take a closer look at Hedda. As I shared pleasantries with the former actress-asking about her stay at the Finch Inn, explaining how our signings work-I tried to assess what the woman was capable of.

Despite her advanced age, Hedda Geist still glowed with charisma and energy. She was tall, lean, and didn't appear particularly delicate or fragile. Mostly, she projected class and elegance. Her silk blouse of emerald green perfectly matched her famous catlike eyes. Her cream-colored crepe slacks draped like filmy curtains; a wide belt of hand-tooled leather cinched them fashionably at the hip. Her silver-white hair was neatly pinned back to show off platinum earrings.

Even her perfume was unique and elegant-a distinctly delicate scent of orange blossoms. I'd never smelled a scent like it.

It was hard not to admire the elderly lady. Her confidence was magnetic and she spoke with eloquence and power.

"Could Brainert possibly be right?" I quietly wondered.

Right about what? Jack suddenly challenged. Spill, baby…

"It's true that Hedda was reckless when she was younger. She threw over her actor boyfriend for the married head of her studio, and when the two men confronted each other, she was caught in a horrifying position. But that doesn't necessarily make the woman a murderer, does it?"

Go on…

"What if the real femme fatale here isn't Hedda Geist? What if Brainert's right? What if it's Dr. Lilly?"

"What if" don't pay the rent, baby. You've got to sell me.

"Think about it, Jack. For years Irene Lilly's been living in the academic shadows. Her backlist film studies were never big sellers-there are hundreds of books like them, carrying the same sorts of essays and retrospectives. Perhaps Dr. Lilly wanted to come out of the shadows for once in her career, not to mention make certain her retirement nest would be well feathered."

You're saying Dr. Lilly was peddling pabulum and knew it?

"A PhD at the end of your name doesn't grant you a halo. Publish or perish is an academic credo, and I know for a fact that stress can drive some professors to rather unethical ends-"

Just a guess, baby, but I'm thinking my idea of "unethical ends" may be a tad different than yours.

"I'm talking about professors who hire professional writers to ghost their papers, even entire books. And I'm not saying Dr. Lilly did that. I'm simply saying she might have chucked academic honesty out the window. Maybe she never had any evidence about Hedda Geist's past. Maybe Irene Lilly simply wanted to use that dark moment at the Porterhouse restaurant to gain media attention for an otherwise ordinary biography."

So you think our dead Lilly just wanted big headlines?

"Today's news business is a pretty hungry monster: 24/7 cable news, thousands of Internet sites globally. Leveling sensational charges would have gotten the book some sort of attention, even if the charges were ultimately unsubstantiated."

I flashed back on the image of what Jack had showed me at the Porterhouse. When Irving Vreen had fallen on that steak knife, the young Hedda's horrified reaction appeared real enough to me. She seemed genuinely shocked that she'd stabbed the man.

Sure she did, baby, Jack whispered in my head, but then Hedda was one of the best actresses around, wasn't she?

"True."

Appearing as anything the script called for was her specialty. Just like now…

"What do you mean?"

Queen Hedda of Newport, daughter of old money. It's an act, baby, just another part. Remember what you read in that book about her childhood? The broad wasn't born the daughter of royalty or privilege. Back in my time, the dame grew up with a fishmonger's accent, in the shadow of those Long Island City smokestacks we drove by.