The Ghost and the Femme Fatale by Alice Kimberly

Author:Alice Kimberly [Kimberly, Alice]
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: Mystery, Ghost stories, Private investigators, Fiction, Actors, Women Sleuths, Mystery And Suspense Fiction, Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, Murder, Murder - Investigation, Film festivals, Horror & Ghost Stories, Mystery fiction, Ghost, Mystery & Detective - General, Police Procedural, Juvenile Fiction, Women booksellers, Entertainment & Performing Arts, Rhode Island, Actresses, Detective, Mystery & Detective, Fiction - Mystery, Contemporary, General, Fantasy, Suspense, Biography & Autobiography, Ghosts, Fantasy - Contemporary
ISBN: 9780425218389
Publisher: Berkley Prime Crime
Published: 2008-05-04T18:00:00+00:00

Murder by the Book

Hmm. Next time I come out with you, I’m gonna bring

along an extra set of nerves.

—Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye, 1950

“PEN, WAKE UP! Come on, wake up!”

Someone was patting my hand. I tasted dirt, felt a sharp pain in my back and a dull throbbing in my head. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the woods beyond Charity Point,” a male voice replied. “Don’t you remember?”

“What year is it?” I murmured, wondering where Jack had gone.

“Uh- oh, she’s acting goofy, Fiona.”

I opened my eyes to find Seymour crouched over me, his face pinched with concern. I tried to sit up.

“Wait, maybe you shouldn’t move,” he said. “Something might be broken.”

“I’ve got to sit up, Seymour. Rocks are digging into my spine, and I think I have a bug in my blouse!”

Seymour called over his shoulder. “I think maybe Pen has a concussion.”

I pushed Seymour away. “I don’t have a concussion. And who are you talking to, anyway?”

I sat up, did a double- take.

Fiona was pale faced, standing beside the mud- splattered golf cart. Grass stains streaked the cart’s bright finish. Torn vines clung to the headlights and dangled from the rearview mirror. A low- hanging branch had ripped a ragged hole in the pink- and-white pokka- dotted canvas top. Taking the golf cart off- road and into the woods had obviously exacted a toll on the fragile vehicle.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Seymour was driving.”

“No, it was me,” Fiona replied. “I saw Seymour follow you into the woods. I knew I couldn’t catch up unless I had wheels. I drove up the trail and picked up Seymour first. We heard you calling in the distance, but we couldn’t find you. Then we heard you scream.”

“That’s when I grabbed the wheel and made Fiona go off-trail, right through the brush,” Seymour said. “And we finally found you.”

“I appreciate it.”

Seymour and Fiona helped me to my feet. I gingerly touched my head, groaned when I felt the lump above my forehead.

“No blood,” Seymour said, inspecting my skull. “Just a jumbo-sized egg.” He stepped back, pulled a twig from my auburn hair.

“I think I’m okay,” I said.

Seymour frowned. “What the hell happened, Pen? Why did you run into the woods like some nutcase?”

I told them about seeing Dr. Rubino from the top of the light house, then following the man into the woods. I glossed over the part about getting lost. Left out the crazy dream of tracking down clues with Jack Shepard in 1948 Queens, New York, and simply told them that a speeding biker ran me down.

“I’m going to speak with Chief Ciders again,” Fiona said angrily. “This is unacceptable. It’s trespassing. How long before one of these careless dirt bikers runs down one of my guests!”

Fiona helped me brush off the remaining dirt and leaves from my hair and clothes. “Did you recognize the biker?” she asked. “Someone you maybe saw around town?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know . . . it happened so fast.”

Fiona pressed. “What do you remember?”

I closed my eyes, massaged my throbbing temples.

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