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 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 maitre 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 maitre d' was rushing toward the kitchen doors, where the restaurant's uneasy waiters had gathered. The maitre 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 maitre 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 maitre 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 tonight's little 'accident,' because the Porterhouse's book of reservations is about to go up in flames."
Ring-ring! 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?"