My brow wrinkled. "The what detective?"
"It's a series of movies from the forties, starring stunt-man-turned-actor Pierce Armstrong. He plays a private detective who's also a fisherman."
Fisherman detective? Jack snorted. The gumshoes I knew only had one thing in common with fish-they drank like them.
"Rumor has it Pierce Armstrong's going to be one of the surprise special guests this weekend," Seymour said excitedly. "At least, according to Barry Yello's Web site this morning-"
"Armstrong?!" I couldn't believe it. "Pierce Armstrong is still alive? And he's coming here… to Quindicott?"
Quick, baby, ask Dizzy Dean what he remembers about Act Two of the guy's life.
"Yes, of course!" I turned to Seymour. "Wasn't Pierce Armstrong mixed up in the death of Irving Vreen, the owner of Gotham Studios?"
"Brother, is that an understatement!" Seymour declared. "Tell me what you know."
"He stood trial for manslaughter, and they sent him to prison for five years."
Lucky he didn't get a dime, Jack said. Judges and the public liked red meat back in the day…
"I'm sure the district attorney would have stuck him for murder instead of manslaughter," Seymour went on, "but there was a glitch. Vreen died from a stab wound, but Armstrong didn't actually stab him. I don't know a lot of the specifics-"
"It was Hedda," I blurted out. "Armstrong tripped and fell in a restaurant. He knocked Vreen onto a large steak knife, which Hedda was holding."
Seymour looked at me, puzzled. "How do you know that? I mean, it isn't exactly in the mainstream. The only reason I know about Pierce Armstrong going to prison is because of a bio attached to his filmography in Films of the Forties. That's the only thing in print about the man, as far as I know, and it's been out of print for thirty years."
"Oh… er… someone told me last night-at the theater."
"Well, Armstrong did hard time in Ossining -you might know it better as Sing Sing. And by the time he got out, his star turn was over."
Tell your mailman pal to keep wagging his tongue, Jack urged. He's giving us good gravy.
"So what did Armstrong do?" I asked Seymour. "After he got sprung from Sing Sing."
"Well, people on the East Coast wouldn't hire him, since they still remembered the Vreen murder and held it against him. So Armstrong went back to Hollywood, where he still had friends in the stunt profession. They helped him get back his old career as a stuntman in cowboy pictures. If you know what to look for, you'll see him taking punches or bullets in just about every classic Western, from John Ford's The Searchers to The Gene Autrey Show"
"What about Hedda?" I asked.
Seymour shrugged. "She was never charged with anything, as far as I know. In fact, I'm pretty sure she testified against Armstrong at his trial."
I frowned. That didn't seem right at all. "But she was holding the knife."
Seymour shrugged. "If you're implying that Armstrong was railroaded, I won't argue. He's always been one of my favorite B-movie guys, so I'd be the first one to give him the benefit of the doubt. And Hedda paid another way. With Vreen dead, Gotham Features collapsed and her career was over."
"Did you hear that, Jack?" I silently asked.
I heard, baby. If Hedda set up Vreen for murder, then she simultaneously set up her own career for sudden death.
"Then what possible motive could she have had to kill Vreen?" I quietly wondered. "It must have been a tragic accident…"
"Yeah," Seymour went on, "today's Tramp Pack of starlets and pop divas may thrive on bad-girl publicity, but back then, scandal was heavy baggage. Hedda's ex-boyfriend had been sent to prison for the death of her married lover. It was obviously too much for the public to accept because no studio would touch Hedda after that. But I guess she made out okay, anyway."
"How do you mean?"
"I chatted with Brainert's soda pop academic pal last night-you remember, Dr. Pepper? He told me Hedda lived the life of Riley after her movie career was over. She married Lincoln Middleton, a television executive. When he died, she inherited a ton of money, along with his family's horse farm in Newport." Seymour snorted. "Nice life, if you can steal
it… "
CHAPTER 5. An Explosive Notion
Thanks for the ride, the three cigarettes, and for not laughing at my theories on life.
– The Postman Always Rings Twice, 1946
THE MAILMAN AND I arrived at the Cooper Family Bakery to find it mobbed. Dr. Lilly hadn't been exaggerating-the line of customers ran down the block. Some were locals, but most appeared to be festival attendees.
"Look, Pen!" Seymour elbowed me. "A friend of ours is almost up to the counter. C'mon!"
Seymour was fine with cutting the line. Me? I wasn't so comfortable with the dirty looks we were getting until I saw who the "friend of ours" was: Bud Napp.
This is your chance, baby. Wait till Buddy boy's all sweetened up with pastries, then grill him!
"Check!" I told Jack. But Seymour beat me to the lanky hardware store owner.
"Hey, Thor, where's your mighty hammer?"
It was Seymour 's favorite joke with Bud, who used a ball peen hammer to maintain control over the Quindicott Business Owners Association meetings. Bud used to have a real judge's gavel, until someone lifted it. Now he carried his "good-as-a gavel" to and from our meetings on his tool belt.
"Hi, Bud!" I said brightly, hoping to make up for Seymour 's jibe.
"Hello, Pen," Bud said, touching the brim of his Napp
Hardware baseball cap. Then he frowned at Seymour. "Cut the crap, Tarnish. I'm not in the mood."
Seymour 's eyes bulged. "My, we're testy today. What's eating you?"
Bud was silent as he eyed the people around us. "Nothing I care to talk about."
Noting Bud's surly mood, I quickly changed the subject by explaining my plight. Bud immediately offered to help me transport the coffee and pastries back to the bookshop in his hardware store van.
Ten minutes later, he'd downed two doughnuts and a large coffee, then rolled the truck up to the front of the bakery and unlocked the rear double doors. The crowd parted as Seymour and I loaded up the goodies. The three of us wedged ourselves into the front seat of the van. With my elbow jammed into Bud's overalls, we were off.
During the short drive down Cranberry Street, Jack reminded me to get going with the grilling, and I cleared my throat.
"So, Bud, what did you think about that accident last night at the theater?"
Bud cursed and shook his head. "I won't take the fall for that one. No way," he declared.
"Who's blaming you?" I asked.
"Who isn't? Your pal the Brainiac for starters." Bud's calloused fingers squeezed the steering wheel. "That's the thanks I get for stepping in at the last second when that fancy restoration firm in Newport couldn't be bothered with final fixes."
A bicyclist swerved into Bud's path. He hit the van's brakes and horn. The van lurched, throwing me and Seymour forward and back.
"Woah, Speed Racer, chill!" Seymour cried.
"I've got a good crew. The best!" Bud continued, ignoring Seymour. "Not a bunch of bums hired off the street. My guys know what they're doing!"
"Including Dixon Gallagher?" I asked.
Bud frowned. "I know Dixon looks too young to be skilled, but believe me, he is. He's been working for me part-time for more than ten years. I taught him some, but he already knew plenty because his dad's a master electrician. When that boy finally gets over his rock-star fantasies and quits his garage band, you can bet he'll quit me, too, and start earning serious money in the union."
"So Dixon hung the speaker?"
"No, Pen. I hung that speaker myself, and I know the job was done right."
I watched that cyclist in front of us pedal casually off to the side of the street, as if he hadn't almost been run over. Festival attendees took advantage of Bud's situation and jaywalked in front of his van. Bud cursed and honked again.