The Ghost and the Femme Fatale by Alice Kimberly

It’s the exact gown Hedda wore when she ran onto the dark road. Remember? The shoulder of the gown was torn in the picture. She was holding it up with one hand. But in the original movie poster for Wrong Turn it looks exactly like that.”
    “I don’t believe it,” Jack muttered.
    “Believe what?”
    “Believe you caught something I missed... but you did. You’re right on the money. She’s wearing the same gown, all right.”
    I smiled, proud of myself. “Thanks.”
    “Don’t let it go to your head. We’re not nearly finished here.”
    “What else is there to do?”
    “You remember what I said back in your hayseed town—”
    “Quindicott is not a hayseed town, Jack. It’s a quaint New En gland hamlet—”
    “Drive me buggy later, okay? I’m trying to tell you something here. After that accident with the falling speaker at your egghead friend’s movie theater, do you remember what I said?”
    “Yes, of course. You implied that Hedda had been involved with another accident. But I don’t see Hedda in the room.”
    “You will,” Jack promised before another sip of Scotch.
    Within minutes, Hedda Geist did show, just as Jack promised. The actress was young again and gorgeous, gliding into the exclusive steak house looking like the starlet she was, her stunning figure hugged by a seductively sheer gown of pale pink. The halter top showed off her creamy shoulders, the tight bodice flattered her hourglass curves, and a pearl choker complimented her long neck.
    Jack’s eyes—along with every other red- blooded male’s in the restaurant—were drawn to the dazzling blonde, following her across the dining room on the arm of an incongruous escort.
    Like every other couple in this restaurant, Hedda’s date was twice her age. He was bald, had a slight build, and a rather short stature. With her heels on, Hedda was at least two inches taller.
    “That’s Irving Vreen,” Jack whispered. “He’s the head of Gotham Features, the studio in Queens that made her the star of their B pictures.”
    “Knowing how well those pictures did for the studio, I’d say it was the other way around. It was Hedda who made Gotham Features.”
    “Can’t argue there,” Jack said.
    I studied Vreen, trying to see whether or not he was wearing a gold band on his left hand, but he was too far away. “So what’s up with Vreen?” I finally asked, turning back to Jack. “If this is a place for cheating Charles, am I to assume Vreen’s a married man?”
    “Bingo. Married to Dolores Vreen. They have one young daughter. Live on Long Island.”
    “How do you know that?” I asked. “Did you know Vreen personally?”
    “No,” said Jack. “But a little over a year before this night, I did some PI work for his movie studio’s property master. The case of the disappearing props, some of them pretty expensive. It was an easy stakeout and an even easier bust—some poor slob of a production assistant swiping it after hours and stashing it in his mother’s basement. Nothing to write home about, as far as my case files.”
    “Well, if you don’t know Vreen personally, or didn’ t —gee, it’s tough to know how to make tenses work when you’re actually back in the past—”
    “Get on with it.”
    “How do you know Vreen’s really cheating with Hedda? They could just be colleagues sharing a business dinner.”
    Jack’s head tilted ever so slightly. “Is that how ‘colleagues’ act during a ‘business’ dinner?”
    I slowly turned on my stool again, lifted my martini for a sip as I casually glanced in the direction Jack had gestured.
    “Goodness . . .” I whispered.
    Hedda Geist and Irving Vreen had elected to cram themselves into the same side of a leather-cushioned booth. While Vreen was studying the menu, Hedda was practically in his lap, nibbling his weak chin with little kisses.
    “Well?” Jack said.
    “Well, I guess Vreen’s cheating.”
    “The papers will say so, too. They’ll be all over the story in