The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library hb-3

by Alice Kimberly

  “I, uh…” (Stalling brilliantly wasn’t my strong suit.) “Perhaps you should speak to my partner—”

  But before I could get my aunt on the line, Mr. United Nations announced, “I shall drive up to you first thing tomorrow morning. If the condition of the volume is satisfactory, I promise you that we will work out a mutually agreeable price. Good day, Mrs. McClure.”

  “But, Mr. Van Riij, I don’t think—Hello?”

  The line went dead, and I stood there for a moment, unable to believe the man simply had hung up on me. I no sooner dropped the receiver into its cradle when it rang again, and I assumed he was calling back to tell me that we’d been disconnected accidentally.

  “Mr. Van Riij?” I answered.

  “No. Is this Buy the Book? Is that you, Penelope?”

  It was a woman’s voice, vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it in ten words or less. “Sorry, yes, this is Penelope Thornton-McClure. Who’s calling?”

  “It’s Susan Keenan.”

  “Oh! Sue! Sorry, what’s up? Have you started the new Cornwell?”

  “Not yet—tonight though, when the kids are in bed and my husband’s doing his Internet thing—you know how it is…”

  I used to…but one thing I did know: if I were Sue Keenan, I’d be making sure my husband’s “Internet thing” was open access. When a man starts locking himself in a room with a computer, he’s probably doing one of two things—neither of which were Googling for tips on home repair.

  “Pen, the reason I called was because of Spencer.”

  I could hear a dog barking in the background and some kids laughing and playing. Then a door shut and those noises were muted.

  “What is it, Sue?” I asked. “You’ve got me worried.”

  “I met Danny and Maura’s school bus. They’re on the same bus as Spencer, and I saw one of the boys bullying your son—”

  “Aw, no…”

  “I had sharp words for the bus driver for not stopping it, but Syd said he can’t be a nursemaid or he’ll risk getting into an accident. He said the road’s his priority, you know? Anyway, this Boyce Lyell, he was pushing Spencer around pretty badly. He ripped up something of Spence’s too. I shouted for them to stop and they did, but I wanted you to know what was going on. I’ve seen at least three TV news specials on school bullies and how bad it can get if it’s not nipped in the bud, and I know I’d go ballistic if my Danny was in that situation, you know?”

  It took me a few seconds to digest everything Sue had just said. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath. “Thanks, Sue. I mean it.”

  “If you need me to talk to anyone at the school to verify what I saw, just give me a call, okay?”

  “Okay…Thanks again.”

  “No problem. I’d want you to call me if you ever saw my kids in that situation, you know?”

  “Of course.”

  After hanging up, I found Sadie in the storeroom, let her know about the call from Mr. Lars Van Hang-up, and asked her to cover the front. Then I headed upstairs.

  And so, it seemed, did Jack.

  You going to tell me how you’re going to handle this?

  “No,” I silently answered.

  No? Or you don’t know?

  “Both, but I don’t want you butting in, okay? Sit this one out.”

  I found my son moping in front of the TV set. The Intrigue Channel was on and Spencer was already engrossed in a Jack Shield episode he’d probably seen three times already.

  “How about a snack?” I asked.

  Spencer didn’t look up, just shook his head. “Not hungry.”

  I walked over and sat next to him on the couch. “PB&J? Or how about we take a walk to Franzetti’s Pizza for a slice?”

  Spencer just shook his head again.

  “You’ve got the right idea. Don’t want to ruin your dinner. I’ve got a delicious beef stew in the Crock-Pot and some fresh-baked bread from Cooper’s Bakery.”

  Spencer nodded sullenly, but still refused to talk, so I leaned back and watched television with him for a few minutes.

  The original Jack Shield TV show was one of those black-and-white mid-century Dragnetesque crime dramas. It followed a no-nonsense private investigator working the mean streets of New York City. The show was based on a series of blockbuster bestsellers written by the late Timothy Brennan, a former journalist who claimed he’d drawn the Shield stories from the case files of an actual deceased PI—a man he’d personally known by the name of Jack Shepard.

  “Do you like this episode?” I asked my son, desperate to start a conversation—any conversation.

  “It’s okay.”

  “What’s the story about?”

  “This mobster guy…” Spencer pointed. “He’s the man in the funny suit with the hat…he hires Jack to find his old girlfriend. Jack finds her in another city, but she’s happy to be away from the mobster guy. Plus she’s about to get married. And she begs Jack not to tell where she is. So Jack goes back and stands up to the mobster and tells him to leave the girl alone. The mobster gets real angry, but Jack won’t tell him where the girl is. Jack’s a real tough guy…”

  “A real tough guy. I see.”

  “I like that he’s a tough guy, Mom. Nobody pushes Jack around.”

  Nuts to that!

  Jack’s voice exploded so loudly in my head I nearly cried out. After a few seconds and a deep breath, I calmly addressed him through my thoughts—

  “Jack, I asked you to butt out.”

  Well, I’m butting in to set the kid straight. “Nobody pushes Jack around?” I got pushed around plenty. This show’s a load of hooey! That bloated barstool raconteur who called himself an author may have stolen my life and made a mint on it, but he got plenty wrong.

  “You’re telling me that Timothy Brennan didn’t base this story on your files?”

  Lies about my files, sure. I wasn’t hired by some goomba mobster. I was hired by an up-and-up banker. It wasn’t until I tracked down the guy’s honey that I found out he was laundering money for a gambling syndicate on the side. She came clean with me, and I went back to the man and you know what I told him?

  “Nothing? Like in the television show I’m watching? Did you stand up to the man and demand he leave his old girlfriend alone?”

  I lied, baby. I told the man that his girl was killed in an auto wreck. I even falsified some documents to cover her trail. Then I walked away. Nobody in their right mind butts head directly with a banker connected to the syndicate—not when you want to keep working in the same town. And definitely not when you can buffalo the guy and get away clean.

  I thought that over for a few minutes, then I turned to my son. “You know, Spencer, Jack Shield…I’ve, uh…read a lot about his real life, and he’s not just tough. He’s also smart.”

  “Yeah…I guess.”

  “What I mean is…he doesn’t always have to muscle his way out of a situation. Sometimes he outsmarts the men who want to hurt him—”

  “No, Mom! You can’t outsmart guys who are bigger than you.”

  “But if you—”

  “When a guy’s bigger than you, and he wants to push you around, you get pushed! Unless you’re a tough guy like Jack Shield, you get pushed all over the place! You don’t know what it’s like, Mom. You don’t know anything about it!”

  And with that, my son stormed out of the living room and slammed shut his bedroom door.

  Got to hand it to you, baby, you know how to clear a room.

  I noticed Spencer had left his backpack on the floor. It was partially unzipped and I peeked inside. On top of his books was the Reader’s Notebook, the one Spencer had worked so long and hard on all summer. It was completely destroyed. Every page had been shredded.

  I pulled it out and pieces of parchment fluttered to the floor. As I pushed the pieces back together, I was able to make out the scripted letters—

  Quindicott Elementary School

  First Place Award

  Reader of the Year

 
; Spencer McClure

  CHAPTER 10

  Expert Opinion

  The truth is, I am heartily sick of this life and of the nineteenth century in general. I am convinced that every thing is wrong. Besides, I am anxious to know who will be President in 2045. As soon, therefore, as I have a shave and a cup of coffee, I shall just step over to Ponnonner’s and get embalmed for a couple of hundred years.

  —Edgar Allan Poe, “Some Words with a Mummy,”

  Broadway Journal, 1845

  SADIE DROPPED THE receiver into its cradle, then dropped herself into a chair. “Goodness. That man nearly talked my ear off!”

  “Another Poe collector?”

  Sadie nodded.

  I glanced at my watch. It was now just after seven P.M. Spencer often came into the store in the evening, but tonight he remained in front of the TV, brooding.

  Over dinner, I gently told my son about the call I’d received from his friend’s mother. He reddened and tried to shrug off his being bullied as “no big deal,” but I wasn’t letting this go. Having his Reader’s Notebook and first place certificate ripped up was a big deal, and I was going to do the dealing.

  I made a huge fuss over his winning first prize for the most books read over the summer, and told him he was getting a big reward. I would take him and a group of his friends to the haunted house on Green Apple Road and treat them to ice cream. This cheered him up considerably.

  But then I told him that I’d be going to his school the next morning. He begged me to reconsider, but I was resolved. A talk with the principal was in order, whether my son liked it or not.

  Meanwhile, as incredible as it seemed, Sadie had fielded five more long-distance calls inquiring about the Phelps editions. I walked over to my aunt, who’d collapsed into one of the overstuffed armchairs at the end of the aisle I was restocking.

  The comfy chairs, like the antique floor and table lamps and oak bookcases, were part of the renovations I’d instigated when I first went into partnership with Sadie. Out went the ancient fluorescent ceiling fixtures and old metal shelves, in came the Shaker-style rockers, author appearances, and twenty-first-century book-selling tools.

  I’d overhauled the inventory, too, adding plenty of mysteries and true crime to give us our theme, but Sadie had insisted that we keep the store’s original rare book business—and, brother, was I glad she did.

  “With word of mouth like this,” I said, eyeballing our backlist levels on McCrumb, MacDonald, Mailer, and Marlowe, “we don’t need to advertise those Poe books. The collectors are coming to us.”

  Sadie nodded. “News never traveled this fast in the book-collecting world that I can recall.” With a tissue, she cleaned her glasses, which dangled from her silver chain. “Between cell phones and the Internet, things move at the speed of light! I feel like I’m suddenly in the world of high finance, the way that last caller pressured me!”

  “You held out, though?” I replied.

  “Yes, I certainly want to hear what Brainert’s expert has to say. But he better stop by the shop soon. I’ve managed to fend off everyone so far, but it hasn’t been easy. I’m sorry to say that last fellow actually became verbally abusive. He was convinced I was simply holding out for a better price.”

  Garfield, who’d finished restocking the new release table, scratched his full beard. “That’s because he’s probably a corporate goon. They all think you’re ripping them off because they do it.”

  Junior here’s a real Confucius, Jack groused. He knows a lot, for someone who’s done bupkus.

  “He’s young,” I silently replied. “Garfield likes to think he’s sticking it to the man.”

  Lamb chop, I’m not reading your frequency.

  “My frequency?…Oh! You mean my slang? Well here’s a bulletin, Jack, sometimes I don’t read yours either.”

  What’s not to get? You’re the one who claims to be a fan of these fantasyland detective stories you peddle, not me.

  I noticed Garfield retrieving his jacket from the store closet. “Gotta go, Mrs. McClure. Time for the night shift at the gas station.”

  Sadie shook her head. “When do you sleep, young man?”

  “Sleep! Who needs it?” Garfield smiled and waved. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Ah, youth,” she murmured as she rose and stretched. She’d already brought the store’s laptop up front. While she took a seat behind the counter and read the store’s e-mails, I continued checking our backlist levels. It took me about twenty minutes to finish—as well as clean up some muddy footprints tracked between Mickey Spillane and Sara Paretsky. That’s when the front door chimed.

  “Penelope?”

  I recognized Brainert’s voice. “Hey,” I called, standing up and pushing the hair out of my face, now damp with perspiration. I crossed the store and rounded the corner of a bookcase to find my friend walking up to the counter. He was wearing the same salmon-colored V-neck and white button-down he’d had on this morning, save for the addition of a bow tie. He’d also exchanged the J. Crew wind breaker for a heavier J. Crew peacoat—and he’d brought another man with him.

  The newcomer was tall with broad athletic shoulders. He had the sort of late-season tan you see on die-hard surfers or golfers with second homes in Palm Beach. His hair was sun-kissed golden, and he wore it in a boyish twentysomething mop, which suited him even though his attractive weathered features said, “definitely over thirty.” Then his electric blue eyes focused on me, and (though I am loath to admit something like this) I actually stopped breathing for a few seconds.

  Brainert stepped forward. “Penelope, I’d like to introduce you to Associate Professor Nelson Spinner, Department of English, St. Francis College.”

  Nelson Spinner clearly eschewed the preppy look favored by Brainert and most of the other faculty members at St. Francis. He wore a beautifully tailored charcoal suit with a crisp, blue shirt and matching Windsor-knotted tie that perfectly matched his penetrating eyes. A fine, black tailored overcoat was draped on his arm.

  “Mrs. McClure, Professor Parker has told me so much about you,” he said, extending his hand. His voice was pleasant, his grip firm but gentle, and I felt his hand linger in mine a beat longer than necessary.

  “You’re not from around here,” I said, detecting no tell-tale signs of dropped R’s and drawn-out vowels.

  “Bucks County, Pennsylvania,” Spinner replied with a polite smile.

  “Nelson did his graduate work in Philly,” Brainert noted.

  “Really? You didn’t have the good fortune of studying with Camille Paglia, did you?”

  Spinner’s smile warmed. “Actually, I attended the University of Pennsylvania and Professor Paglia is part of the faculty at the University of the Arts. But I did attend quite a few of her public lectures, and I found the experience quite edifying.”

  I nodded in agreement. “I saw her speak in Boston a few years ago and envied her students. I wish we could lure her here for a talk on the femme fatale in popular culture. I’m sure I could pack this place with people who’d buy up her backlist. She’s a wonderful speaker, isn’t she?”

  “Indeed she is, Mrs. McClure.”

  My aunt suddenly cut in. “Let’s not be so formal, Professor Spinner. Call her Penelope. And I’m Sadie.”

  Spinner turned to offer his hand to my aunt. “Ah, the owner of those rare volumes.”

  “You’re talking about the Phelps books, I presume?”

  “You bet,” Brainert answered. “Nelson is something of an expert.”

  Spinner modestly waved off Brainert’s compliment. “I’m no expert, truly. But I do know a bit about Eugene Phelps.”

  I managed to dust myself off and lose the shapeless smock I’d donned while doing the store’s housekeeping. As I worried whether my powder-blue sweater and jeans were presentable, I realized Spinner had managed to come off as warm and intimidating at the same time—no easy feat…then again, maybe it was just me.

  Stop fussing, baby, Jack commanded. I’ve
told you plenty of times…you’re whistle bait. No man alive wouldn’t want you heating his sheets.

  “For pity’s sake, Jack…” I tried to will my cheeks from flaming. “Not now, please?”

  Sure, honey, but why your heart’s beating twice its speed for Blondie here’s beyond me. The guy dresses well, but his expression’s got more sap than a maple tree.

  “Not everyone’s as hard-boiled as you, you know.”

  Sweetheart, strawberry jam would be more hard-boiled than this joker.

  “Stow it, Jack!”

  Stow it? What are you, on a nautical frequency now? Did you join the coast guard when I wasn’t looking?

  “Jack…”

  And another thing, why in hell is Bow Tie Boy wearing a peacoat? Last I checked he hadn’t joined the swabbie corp—yet in he waltzes wearing navy surplus, for cripe’s sake!

  “Well, let’s see now,” Sadie said, making a show of glancing at her watch. “I’ll have to close the store and shut out the register.” She paused to give a theatrical sigh. “I’ll be along shortly, but Penelope can certainly take you back, get you started.”

  “Well…I…I’m really not well-versed about the Phelps books,” I said, glaring at Sadie. She winked back!

  “Nonsense,” she told me firmly. “Professor Spinner is the expert. That’s why he’s here. To tell us all about them.”

  “Come on, Nelson. Let’s go,” Brainert said, impatiently charging forward.

  Spinner followed Brainert through the archway, into the Community Events space, and presumably to the storage room beyond.

  As I stepped around the counter to follow, Sadie lightly squeezed my arm and whispered, “I think you should be very nice to Professor Spinner.”

  “I don’t know what you think you’re doing. For all I know, he’s married.”

  Sadie shook her head. “There’s no ring on his finger, dear. And you really should pay more attention to things like that. You won’t always have me around to play matchmaker.”

  “You can quit anytime.”

  “Now, Pen, last night you were complaining that you had a better chance of being struck by lightning than meeting an available man around Quindicott. Professor Spinner looks available to me!”