The Ghost and the Femme Fatale by Alice Kimberly Page B

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 Nak ed 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 eno ugh 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