The crowd laughed and applauded.
"Indeed, tonight truly is like yesteryear. You've made it all come back to me-"
An intense flash suddenly illuminated the stage. The silent burst of light was followed by a shower of sparks that rained down around the standing mike, where Hedda was speaking.
Another flash came from above, and the startled elderly woman looked up.
"Oh, my god!" someone cried from the first row.
"The speaker!"
"Look out!"
Screams came from all over the theater as the massive black audio speaker dropped from above, trailing sparking wires.
Brainert lunged for Hedda and pulled her away. The object struck the heavy microphone stand, smashing the metal flat. More screams filled the theater as the speaker bounced across the stage, then came apart. People in the front row leaped up as the debris scattered.
"Oh, my God, Jack," I silently cried. "That speaker could have hurt Hedda!"
You mean killed, don't you? Look at that steel microphone stand, baby. It's smashed beyond recognition.
Now I was on my feet along with everyone else, and another figure dashed onto the stage-Bud Napp. As sparks continued to flutter down like sizzling snow, Bud raised his arms and signaled for calm. "All right, people, settle down now," he declared in the same tone he used when presiding over our Quindicott Business Owners Association meetings. "No one was hurt, and there's no cause for alarm!"
"What happened?" someone cried.
"Looks like our public address speaker fell, that's all," Bud continued. "There's no danger to anyone, so don't panic. But as you can tell from my shouting, we lost our audio system…"
Behind Bud, the young, blonde Hedda lookalike darted across the stage to put an arm around the elder Hedda. Appearing shaken, the actress quickly recovered, and the young woman led her off stage.
Brainert stepped forward, careful to avoid the sparking wires, as he loudly addressed the crowd. "I'm sure Dr. Lilly will be happy to finish her lecture tomorrow morning, at the Buy the Book store on Cranberry Street."
Dr. Lilly nodded. "I'm sure to have my new book delivered by then!" she shouted. "I hope to see you all there!"
"And we'll hear from the great Hedda Geist-Middleton later this weekend, too!" Brainert added, forcing a stiff grin across his still chalk-white face. "Meanwhile, I have an idea. Let's forget about this little mishap and proceed to the lawn party at the Finch Inn!"
Spotty applause followed, and then the crowd began to buzz with excitement as it moved up the aisles. The electric reaction didn't surprise me. Witnessing a shocking accident was a gossip gold mine in this little town. Not only had these folks scored a story to tell for weeks to come, they could start rehashing it right now at a party with food and drink.
I remained in my seat, waiting for the mob to disperse. Then I approached the stage, one eye on the shattered speaker and the hot, sparking wires still flashing overhead.
That Hedda Geist… Jack remarked.
"What about her?"
She's one accident-prone dame.
"What do you mean by that?" I demanded.
But the ghost didn't answer.
"Jack? Are you there?"
He wasn't. For whatever his reason this time, the ghost of Jack Shepard had once again faded to black.
CHAPTER 3. Night Trips
The work of the police, like that of a woman, is never done.
– He Walked by Night, 1948
I DIDN'T GO to the party on the Finch Inn lawn. Even though it was a Friday night, Spencer's sixteen-year-old babysitter had a midnight curfew. Normally, my aunt Sadie would have stayed home with Spence, but being in her seventies hadn't precluded accepting a hot date for the party with widower Bud Napp. I, on the other hand, was young, dateless, and had to get home.
After letting Spencer's sitter out the bookstore's front door, I relocked the shop, climbed the stairs to our three-bedroom apartment, and checked on my sleeping son.
Spencer was in dreamland on his narrow bed, his breathing deep and even; his orange-striped cat, Bookmark, curled up at his feet. He was eleven now, and, not for the first time, I noticed his growing resemblance to my late older brother: the thick, auburn hair with the stubborn cowlick, the long-lashed eyes, and light dusting of freckles. I had those features, too, but unlike my brother, who'd been a real lady's man, I'd never been anything close to a magnet for the opposite sex.
Thank goodness Spencer's too young for all that, I thought. But I knew it wouldn't be much longer before he started calling girls, or they started calling him. That was the sort of "problem" I'd be happy to deal with compared to what we'd already gone through.
A few years ago, after his father's suicide, Spencer had become increasingly withdrawn-not unlike Calvin's own behavior before he'd stepped out the bedroom window of our high-rise apartment.
After Calvin's funeral, my son seemed convinced that I was going to leave him next, so he didn't want to leave me-didn't want to go to school or summer camp, was reluctant even to step out of the apartment. Then nightmares plagued him; his fears increased, his grades fell, and the therapist my wealthy in-laws had hired for him was unable to help.
That's when the McClures began to pressure me. Spencer needed to "get away," they said. Their solution was boarding school. Mine was a whole lot different. I moved us up to my little hometown of Quindicott, Rhode Island.
It had been difficult at first. Calvin's mother and sister had hit the roof-fashionable, upscale Newport was the place to live in Rhode Island, not my dinky little hometown. They hadn't understood my decision, and Spencer had been angry that I'd forced him to leave New York, abandon everything familiar.
Instead of his exclusive private academy, Spencer was now attending public school. His new bedroom was half the size of his old one, the posh view of skyscrapers exchanged for a single old tree. His sleekly modern private bath was now a shared restroom with a claw-footed tub and a chipped sink.
Eventually, however, he came around; and now he was a completely different child. It was hard for me to admit, but even before Calvin's death, Spencer had been moody and taciturn; sometimes so shy he had trouble making friends. Maybe he'd been reflecting Calvin's own depression and aloofness. Or maybe being in the shadow of a spoiled, lousy, self-absorbed father was just as bad as dealing with the loss of one. (Not that I want to speak ill of the dead.) But my boy was so much happier these days; so much more alive, with blossoming interests and solid grades in school. He even enjoyed helping out at the store; and those terrible nightmares? Gone.
I smiled with that thought as I half-closed my son's door and moved to my own bedroom. Stifling a yawn, I kicked off my low-heeled shoes, changed out of my slacks and blazer, and slipped into my nightshirt. Then I settled under the covers, set my black-framed glasses on the nightstand, and clicked off the light.
Inside my head, however, the light remained on.
Looking at my sleeping son had raised my spirits, filled me with joy and certainty. But in the darkness, something else took over: a vision of what had happened less than an hour earlier, an image of danger and near death.
That huge, black audio speaker had fallen onto the theater stage like the grim reaper looking for a soul. The calm of the audience, followed by the shock, the screams, the chaos… it reminded me of my late husband all over again: of his being right there in our quiet bedroom one moment, and down on the sidewalk the next. I could still hear the shrieks on the street, the squealing of brakes, the sirens.
"There was a flash," I mumbled beneath my bedcovers. "And sparks. Why were there so many sparks? And then that awful smashing noise. Why? Why did it fall?"