"I'm nobody's mistress, Mrs. Pepper," Maggie civilly replied, "and I told you, Wendell is not here. Try calling him at-"

"I've tried calling him, dozens of times! He's ducking me, the worm, but I won't tolerate-"

Virginia Pepper looked up when we entered the living room. The ex-wife of the St. Francis dean was tall and willowy with a long, slender neck. Her blonde hair was pulled back tightly, exposing a great deal of Botoxed forehead. Her eyebrows appeared to slant demonically when she spied Brainert, Seymour, and me. Then her gaze began to bounce back and forth among all of us, as if she were trying to decide who to target first.

"Hello, Virginia," said Brainert, boldly stepping into the line of fire.

My gay, academic friend may have had a physique like Ichabod Crane's, but he had the heart of a Round Table knight, always willing to withstand slings and arrows for his friends.

The woman's predatory eyes narrowed. "Busybody Brainert," she said, her voice dripping with contempt. "Showing gawkers around this mausoleum, are you?"

Brainert's eyes narrowed. "No need to be rude, Virginia. I really don't think-"

"I recognize her," said Virginia, moving on to me. "You're that shopkeeper, the woman who runs that bookstore with her old aunt on Cranberry Street. My friend the councilwoman's mentioned you."

"Councilwoman?" I said. "Which one? You don't mean Marjorie Binder- Smith?"

"Yes, of course. There are other women on the council, of course, but she's the only one with any vision in this backward little town. She says you're a real troublemaker. Probably stupid, too, if you're involved with my ex-husband."

Cripes, this dame's one annoying harridan. No wonder ol' Wendell's not returning her calls. Who'd want to talk to a broad with a stick up her-

"Stop being a bitch, Virginia," Brainert snapped, stepping even farther forward. "Just tell me what you need from Wendell, without the insults."

"A check!" she cried, veins flashing blue in her pale neck.

I cringed, stepping back in an autonomic response. This was the first time I'd met the woman, but her barely contained neurosis reminded me too much of my wealthy, pill-popping, perpetually dissatisfied in-laws, the ones Calvin had looked to for providing a functional foundation in life.

And look how well that worked out for him.

"Oh, God, Jack."

You want me to handle this, baby?

"No. Let her go."

Okay. Jack snorted. If you say so.

Virginia stomped her foot. "Wendell promised he'd help with our son's graduation party! Now June's almost here, and I haven't seen a cent! He keeps crying poverty, but just look at all this junk he's put around the house! Maybe I should just come in here one day, take a few things, and sell them on eBay. Then I'll have my money!"

"I'm sure it's an oversight," Brainert calmly replied. "Wendell's very proud of his son. He's mentioned setting up a generous trust fund for him. I'm sure he means to give you the money for the party. It's just that he's been busy with the theater opening and the festival-"

"That theater. That damn theater!" Virginia sneered. "I wouldn't be sorry to see it burn down."

For a moment, you could hear a pin drop. Then Maggie Kline stepped forward.

"You've gotten your answer, Mrs. Pepper," she said. "Wendell's not here, and frankly, we have things to do, so I'll show you to the door."

Virginia purpled. "I used to live here," she cried with a toss of her head. "I know where the front door is."

Maggie's eyes locked with hers. "Then use it."

With a huff, Virginia Pepper whirled on her flats and strode to the exit. All of a sudden she stumbled, awkwardly careening right into the closed door, her Botoxed forehead hitting the wood with a sharp thump. With a string of curses that would have made the Fisherman Detective blush, she opened it, stormed out, and slammed the door behind her.

Oops, said Jack. Guess there was a wrinkle in the carpet that wasn't there before.

"Jack! What did you do?"

I let her go, like you asked, doll. Right into the front door.

"Well, that was pleasant," Maggie said, her eyes dancing with amusement.

"Now you see why I'm a bachelor," Seymour said.

Maggie glanced at her wristwatch and faced Brainert. "Could you give me a lift to the Movie Town? It's a nice walk, but I'm running late."

"Of course," Brainert replied. "Are you rushing to catch a film?"

"No," she said, with a raised eyebrow. "I want to be there for Hedda Geist's appearance. It's scheduled right after Pierce Armstrong's. If she arrives on time, the two of them will finally meet after all these years. Now that would be something worth seeing, don't you agree?"

We all did agree. And as Maggie ran around, looking for her keys and handbag, I moved toward the house's vestibule. With the front door closed, I noticed an alcove off the entryway that I hadn't seen on our way in. It was the sort of recessed niche where a homeowner would typically display an antique grand-father clock. But there was no clock here.

A thin, rectangular glass case the height of a coffin occupied the space. Inside it hung a full-length evening gown, clearly a preserved piece of wardrobe. I moved closer, my eyes widening, as I realized the dress was made of shimmering silver satin. It had a plunging neckline and a tiny bow at the bodice.

"Jack, I can't believe it," I whispered. "It's the silver gown from Wrong Turn, the one that wasn't ripped at the shoulder!"

The one that turned up on Wilma Brody the night Irving Vreen was stabbed to death. Yeah, baby, I can see that. I just have one question.

"You don't have to tell me, Jack. I have the same question."

Good. Then maybe you can ask Wendell Pepper where the hell he found Hedda Geist's missing gown.

CHAPTER 15. Trapdoor Trap

AN EXPLOSION OF laughter followed by a burst of applause greeted our ears the moment we entered the lobby of the Movie Town Theater. The noise came from inside the auditorium, where Pierce Armstrong was speaking to a boisterous crowd of loyal fans.

Brainert's grin stretched from one ear to the other. "Sounds like a packed house," he crowed.

"Sounds like Pierce Armstrong is on stage right now," Seymour cried, racing ahead of us.

Maggie Kline laughed. "That guy is really into the Fisherman Detective thing."

" Seymour is a particularly odd individual," Brainert muttered.

Maggie smiled. "In Hollywood, he'd fit right in."

"Mr. Parker! Mr. Parker, sir…" A tall young man was waving Brainert over to the concession stand. He wore a white cap and white shirt with MOVIE TOWN THEATER emblazoned across the pocket in bold red letters.

Brainert frowned. "Excuse me. Our head of concessions is calling me. I'm afraid I have some important managerial business to attend to."

"Thank goodness you're here, Professor Parker," the young man called, "we're almost out of Raisinets again!"

Brainert glanced unhappily at me. "I'll join you shortly."

As he headed to the stand, Maggie and I followed Seymour into the crowded auditorium. On the way I glanced at the gold-framed bulletin board, where the day's schedule of events was posted.

Hedda Geist had appeared on stage earlier in the day for a Q &A with Barry Yello. She was due to speak again in less than fifteen minutes, providing a short personal introduction to Tight Spot, another of her Gotham Features films.

Another ripple of laughter from the auditorium told me that Pierce Armstrong was still going strong. He would most likely be on stage when Hedda arrived, so it appeared the two former lovers were indeed about to meet face-to-face for the first time in sixty years.