The Ghost and the Femme Fatale by Alice Kimberly

went off.”
    “What do you think happened?”
    “The speaker was hung from the ceiling on a metal brace. One of the struts actually broke. Truth is, Penelope, I think a small explosive was used.”
    “What?!”
    “I know it sounds crazy. But I also know construction materials. A short, electrical fire could not have generated enough heat to snap steel. A long fire might, but a fire of any duration would have left evidence. Smoke, scorching—and we’d have heard the fire alarms go off.” A shadow crossed Bud’s face. “I’m positive there was an explosion.”
    “How could someone plant a bomb up there? On the ceiling?”
    “Easy. There’s a ladder in the wings. It goes right up to a catwalk, which runs along the ceiling above the stage. The speaker mount was within easy reach of anyone standing on that catwalk.”
    “But if it’s vandalism, who did it? And why?”
    Bud couldn’t answer that one, but I was sure someone else had some theories.
    “Jack? Are you hearing this?” I quietly asked the ghost.
    Yeah, baby. If someone blew the speaker to kill Hedda, they almost succeeded. It could have been little Harmony who’d arranged it. She was probably the only one who knew her granny was going to make a last- minute appearance.
    “You’re right, Jack, but if the explosion had a remote device, it could have been triggered by anyone in the audience that night. You heard Seymour—he said Pierce Armstrong might be showing up at the festival. What if he’s here already? Hedda testified against him at his trial. What if he was in the audience last night and rigged the speaker to kill Hedda in some kind of long- overdue revenge scheme?”
    Good call, baby. After all, old Hedda’s been out of the spotlight for de cades. Your pal Dr. Lilly said few people even knew she was still alive. It’s darn coincidental that the first night she steps into the public light again, bam!
    “Hey!” Seymour cried from the sidewalk. “Are we gonna unload here or what?”
    I climbed down out of the van, then turned and leaned through the open window. “We’ll talk about this later, Bud.”
    Bud nodded, then left the cab and unlocked the rear doors. Despite the bumpy ride, everything looked fine. Seymour carried the thermal containers to the front door of the bookshop and set them down on the sidewalk. Rather than fumbling in my purse for the keys, I rang the bell. Sadie would show Seymour where to put the coffee when she came to the door. Meanwhile, I went back to retrieve the neat stack of boxed donuts from the back of Bud’s van.
    Before I could grab the goodies, Bud jerked his head in the direction of the street. “Here comes trouble,” he warned.
    I peered around the van’s rear door—and my heart sunk.
    It was Councilwoman Marjorie Binder-Smith. She’d recently abandoned her wannabe- Hillary hairstyle for a “Nancy Pelosi look” (according to Colleen at the beauty shop). Her formerly short, blonde hair had been dyed chestnut brown and grown to her shoulders; her ubiquitous pantsuits were gone, replaced with calf- length skirts and sweater sets.
    A uniform of dark blue followed the woman as she charged across Cranberry Street, her hair rigid in the spring breeze. The Quindicott police officer had his hat pulled low, his gait was much slower than Marjorie’s, his broad shoulders slumped.
    Abandoning the donuts, I moved to defuse what looked like a ticking bomb. “Good morning, Councilwoman,” I said brightly. “You’re looking senatorial today or should I say Madame Speaker- ish?”
    The councilwoman ignored my greeting, swung around to face the cop. Only then did I realize the policeman was my friend Eddie Franzetti.
    “Look at the condition of this sidewalk,” the councilwoman told Officer Eddie with theatrical outrage. “There’s garbage everywhere. It’s just a disgrace, and a clear violation of the town’s sanitation ordinances. I want you to issue a littering ticket to this business, right