The Ghost and the Femme Fatale by Alice Kimberly Page A

a matter of hours.”
    “What story, Jack? What did you witness here?”
    Just then, I heard loud voices coming from the reception area. Someone was arguing with the maître d’. Seconds later, a man came barreling into the dining room. He was quite handsome with a jutting, Kirk Douglas jaw, jet- black hair, and bright blue eyes. He was also tall and well- built, his physique closely outlined by a fitted tuxedo.
    “Jack? Who is that? He looks familiar, but I can’t place—”
    “That’s Pierce Armstrong,” Jack informed me, “another actor at Vreen’s studio.”
    Armstrong charged right up to the booth where Hedda was still cooing over Irving Vreen.
    “I knew I’d find you with him!” Armstrong shouted.
    The entire restaurant suddenly fell silent. Every face— including mine and Jack’s—turned in the direction of Hedda’s booth.
    “How could you, Hedda?” Armstrong asked. “How could you break up with me and then throw yourself at Irving?! And after all we’ve been to each other? Why, I ought to slap you silly for this!”
    “Don’t you come near me, Pierce!” Hedda cried. She grabbed one of the Porterhouse’s large steak knives off the table. “Stay back! I’m warning you!”
    “Calm down, Pierce,” said Irving Vreen. “Let’s talk this over.”
    “Step aside, Vreen,” Armstrong loudly warned. “My problem’s not with you! It’s with Hedda! She’s the little tramp who threw me over for you!”
    By now, the maître d’ was rushing toward the kitchen doors, where the restaurant’s uneasy waiters had gathered. The maître d’ motioned to two of the larger men and began to lead them toward Hedda’s table. But it was too late. Armstrong was already lunging toward Hedda.
    “Stop!” Irving Vreen demanded, putting himself between the two.
    But Pierce Armstrong didn’t stop. He tripped instead, knocking Vreen’s slight form backward, right into the steak knife that Hedda had been waving.
    The scene was a horror show. Vreen’s body slumped to the floor, Hedda’s steak knife sticking out of its back. Blood gushed from the wound, spraying like a garden hose. Hedda’s hands and gown were quickly saturated, and she screamed hysterically. Pierce Armstrong stepped back in complete shock, letting the maître d’ and waiters hustle him away from the booth.
    Stunned myself, I turned to Jack. “My God, that’s some accident.”
    “Yeah, baby, if that’s what it was . . .”
    “What are you saying? That Hedda planned to kill Vreen? Why?”
    “I don’t know, and I’m sorry to tell you that I was dead myself within a year of this little party. C’mon.” Jack’s strong grip closed on my upper arm and he pulled me off the bar stool.
    “Slow down, Jack! Where are we going now?”
    “Didn’t you notice? My meal ticket’s taking a powder.”
    Jack was right. As he guided me across the dining room, I saw Nathan Burwell and his barely legal date heading for the exit. So were the other May–December couples. It was practically a stampede!
    “What’s going on?” I asked.
    “What do you think? These cheating Charlies aren’t too keen to be interviewed as witnesses. Not with their chippies in tow.”
    I shook my head. “I can’t believe even the DA isn’t willing to stick around and give a statement to the police. But I guess the detectives on the case can always use the restaurant’s reservations list to track down witnesses.”
    In response, Jack pointed to the maître d’. He was now rushing by us with the reservation book under his arm.
    “Where’s he going with that?” I asked as the man headed for the double doors leading to the kitchen.
    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 to night’s little ‘accident,’ because the Porterhouse’s book of reservations is about to go up in flames.”
    Ring-ring!