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

by Alice Kimberly

  I heard the squeal of tires on pavement, the sound of doors opening. Someone grabbed me, and I found myself looking into the startled face of Officer Eddie Franzetti.

  I sagged with relief.

  I’d known Eddie since I was a little girl. He’d been a close friend of my late brother’s back in high school, before Pete had lost his life drag racing to impress a local beauty queen.

  “Penelope! Calm down.” He peeled off his sunglasses, pushed back his uniform hat. “What happened?”

  “A burglar! In the store…”

  “Anyone else in there?”

  “No…just the intruder. Sadie’s out.”

  Eddie glanced at his partner and jerked his head in the direction of Buy the Book. Bill “Bull” McCoy drew his weapon and cautiously peered through the front door.

  “I need to back up my partner,” Eddie gently explained. “Can you stay here?” I hugged myself and nodded.

  Eddie joined his partner, and I watched them both enter the store. Feeling as if curious stares were on my back, I turned to find that a crowd had congregated around the police cruiser. Eddie appeared in the store’s doorway a moment later.

  “Pen,” he called.

  Apparently, the store was empty. No sign of the intruder.

  Still nervous, I walked back in and gave Eddie and his partner the rundown on what had happened. They listened, Eddie taking notes. I showed them where I left my lunch, the knocked-over display, the scattered hardcovers. I showed them the marks on my arms, fast darkening into bruises, and told them what the man had been after. They asked to see the old books, and we double-checked the Phelps editions. None were missing.

  “He must have broken in through the back door,” I told them. “The one leading into the storeroom.”

  “We checked that out already,” said Bill McCoy. “And there’s a problem with that theory.”

  Eddie and his partner took me back to the storeroom and showed me the door. There were no signs of forced entry. Stranger still, the back door was locked.

  “Could he have picked the lock?” I asked.

  Eddie shrugged. “Anything’s possible. But why lock it again when you leave?”

  “You claim you closed for lunch,” Officer McCoy said in a barely civil tone. “Did you set the burglar alarm?”

  “No,” I replied sheepishly.

  McCoy scowled and glanced at his partner. Eddie shifted uncomfortably. “I’ll put in a report,” he said. “But with nothing stolen, we can only file trespassing and assault charges—and that’s if we catch this guy.”

  I thanked the men for their trouble and promised to set the alarm next time—which I did, as soon as they both left. I then spent the rest of my lunch hour in a daze. When Sadie returned to the store, she found the BACK IN ONE HOUR sign still hanging on the door, and me on the floor, picking up the books I’d scattered in my wild flight. I told her what had happened, from the beginning, leaving out the ghost’s part in coaching my escape.

  The fact that the back door was locked, and not forced open, puzzled us both.

  I offered another theory. “Is it possible that an early customer came in and hid back there, lying in wait until I was alone?”

  Sadie shook her head. “The only customer I had was Mr. Van Riij, and he came and went before business hours. Then you returned from the school and I headed off to church.”

  “And I saw only two shoppers—both of them were women.”

  “The only way through that storeroom door is with a key.” I looked down and rattled the keys dangling from my belt. “Mine is right here.”

  “I have my key, too,” said Sadie. “And I’m sure the store key is behind the counter.”

  But when we looked for that spare key ring, which we kept on a hook behind the register, it was missing. There were four keys on that ring—one each for the front door, the back door, the storage room entrance, and the cash register.

  Sadie picked up the phone. “I’m calling the locksmith to have the door locks changed. After that—” She checked her watch. “I’ll get a head start on setting up the events room for the Quibblers meeting tonight.”

  While Sadie made the call, it occurred to me that two other people had access to those keys on a regular basis—Mina Griffith and Garfield Platt.

  Of course, I knew my attacker wasn’t Mina for obvious reasons and also because she only worked weekends. She didn’t even know about the Phelps volumes of Poe yet.

  As for Garfield, he stood at about my height, but the intruder was a head taller than I. And another thing: The intruder didn’t know how to locate the books he presumably wanted to steal. I’d told him the books were by the register, but he’d still needed me to point out where the register was. Both of those facts let Garfield off the hook.

  I wouldn’t be so sure, Jack declared. Circumstances dictate he had access to those keys. So turn your suspect in and let the cops sort it out. If Garfield’s innocent, no harm done. The coppers will cut him loose eventually.

  “No, Jack, you’re wrong. There would be harm done, so I can’t do that.”

  Why the hell not?

  “Because we’re not in a big city, where there are so many people that nobody pays attention to their neighbor’s business. Small-town people have less people to talk about. So, of course, they talk about them more.”

  I’m on your frequency, honey, but I’m getting nothing but static.

  “Look,” I said, “when Sadie and I hired Garfield, he told us straight out about his brother being an ex-con. Do you know why?”

  Because he’s honest to a fault?

  “No. Because Quindicott runs on gossip. Neither Sadie nor I personally know Garfield’s family, but if we’d started asking around, we’d have heard the gossip about his brother. Garfield knew that. So he saved us the trouble.”

  Throw me a bone, baby, I’m still trying to glom your point.

  “If I were to claim Garfield had something to do with a break-in and an assault on me, and he got questioned by the police, his reputation would get ruined in this town, just like his brother’s. Up to now, Garfield’s been a solid, reliable employee, and he obviously wasn’t the man who grabbed me. I’m not going to ruin his reputation and lose his trust just because I’m desperate for a lead.”

  Hasn’t it occurred to you that Garfield’s ex-con brother might be part of the picture here? He could have been the one who broke into the place.

  “But…that would mean Garfield would have to be involved, too, wouldn’t it?”

  Bingo, baby.

  “Okay, all right. I’ll sit Garfield down when he comes to work tomorrow and ask him some hard questions. Between you and me, we should be able to figure out whether he’s on the up-and-up or pegging me for a sucker.”

  Now you’re speaking my language!

  CHAPTER 14

  Quibble Me This

  Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary/Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

  —Edgar Allan Poe, “The Raven,” 1845

  "IT IS HEREBY proposed that the Quinidicott Business Owners Association shall make a request to the Zoning Board to extend parking hours (pahkin’ ah-wahs) an additional hour within the city limits Monday through Thursday, and an additional two hours on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights.”

  Bud Napp, the widower who owned Cranberry Street Hardware, paused to stifle a yawn. “We do this in anticipation of the crowds that will supposedly be drawn to the artsy-fartsy films Brainert is going to exhibit when his theater opens next month—”

  “I object to that negative remark!” Brainert exclaimed with indignation. “My theater will be a valuable addition to this community.”

  “If the zoning witch lets you have a permit, maybe,” Seymour said. “Otherwise your grand movie palace is going to be one big box of empty.”

  Brainert scowled. “Thanks for the bulletin, Tarnish. Shouldn’t you be peddling ice cream to the teeners up at the haunted house?”


  “No way, Parker,” Seymour replied with a grin. “Wouldn’t miss this meeting for the world.”

  It was obvious to me that Seymour had already heard about the masked man breaking into my store and was here to learn all the juicy details.

  Mailmen don’t have much to live for, do they, doll?

  On that, I had no comment.

  “Anyone ready to second the final motion on the table?” Bud Napp bellowed impatiently.

  Linda Cooper-Logan and her husband, Milner, of Cooper Family Bakery, both raised their hands. “We second it.”

  “Motion passed.” Bud slammed the hammer down, rattling the table. He was wielding a real hammer, too—a brand-new ball peen fresh from his hardware store. Someone had absconded with the gavel after a meeting several months ago. It was one mystery the Quindicott Business Owners Association (a.k.a., the Quibble Over Anything Gang) hadn’t got around to solving.

  On the other hand, some of the members had helped me solve far more vexing mysteries. To wit: Bud Napp, Seymour Tarnish, J. Brainert Parker, Fiona Finch, Linda and Milner Logan, and Mr. Koh and his daughter had helped solve the murder of a visiting true crime author this past summer. Tonight, after the regular meeting adjourned, I was holding out hope they’d stay and help Sadie, Brainert, and I solve another.

  Bud Napp searched me out in the crowd. “This meet’s adjourned,” he declared with a slam.

  The room began to empty at once. Casual attendees filed out immediately—folks like Chick Pattelli, owner of the garden store; Glenn Hastings of Hastings Pharmacy; and Gerry Kovacks, owner and manager of the newly opened phone store, Cellular Planet. All were escorted through the bookstore, to the front door by Sadie. Within a few minutes, the only folks left in the meeting room were the people I’d ask to stay. Sadie locked the door and joined us.

  Rather self-consciously, I stepped behind the podium set up at the front of the room. Behind me, Bud Napp sat at a table, our judge and referee in these informal gatherings as well.

  For the next hour, I brought everyone up to speed—about the death of Peter Chesley in Newport, Rene Montour’s fatal accident on Crowley Road, ending with the details on the attempted robbery of my store and the assault on yours truly.

  Milner cleared his throat. “There’s something you should know, Pen. Officer McCoy was in the bakery this afternoon. He told me what happened. And he claimed you’d made the whole thing up.”

  “What?!” I cried.

  Linda nudged her husband with her elbow. “Tell her the rest of it,” she demanded.

  Milner winced. “McCoy said…sorry, Pen, but he made a crack about you. About how everyone around town knows all about how you became a widow, that your husband killed himself. I think he meant to suggest that maybe you were…you know…mentally unstable.”

  Seymour Tarnish balled a fist and banged his thigh. “That’s just the kind of crap I expect to hear from Bull McCoy. What did that jerk’s partner have to say?”

  “Eddie wasn’t there,” Linda replied. “It was just McCoy, shooting off his mouth. I don’t know how that moron even got on the police force.”

  “It’s easy when you’re Chief Ciders’s nephew,” Bud pointed out.

  I threw up my hands. As small a town as this was, I couldn’t believe no one had shared that little fact with me before tonight. “No wonder McCoy is spreading stories about me. He gets his attitude from his uncle.” And everyone knew there was no love lost between Ciders and me.

  “Forget it, Pen,” Brainert said. “We believe you. That’s what counts.”

  Fiona Finch rose. “Getting back on the subject at hand, Penelope, I think you should know I received a strange phone call this afternoon….”

  As Fiona deliberately allowed her voice to trail off, Seymour folded his arms and tapped his foot. Fiona loved drawing out the suspense when she dispensed gossip. We were all used to it by now, but it continually drove Seymour up the wall.

  “Out with it!” he cried. “Who from?”

  “From Rene Montour’s uncle in Canada,” Fiona declared.

  Sadie nodded. “That’s not unusual. Jacques Montour is the family patriarch and the true book collector in the family. Rene does—er, did bidding and buying for Jacques.”

  “Well,” Fiona said, “Jacques Montour requested we hold Rene’s luggage and personal effects until a representative of the family arrives.”

  “When is this representative expected?” I asked.

  Fiona glanced at her watch. “He should be at the inn right now. I left my Barney at home to meet them. Whoever he is, he’s going to be disappointed.”

  Sadie blinked. “Why?”

  “Mr. Montour didn’t leave much in his room,” Fiona replied. “But I knew he was travelling with something of value because the first thing he did was ask me if the inn had a vault. I told Mr. Montour he was free to avail himself of the inn’s wall safe, but after checking it out, he told Barney that the safe would not be large enough for his purposes.”

  “Montour obviously wanted to stash the books in a secure place,” Sadie said. “He knew they were too valuable to leave in the room, so he kept them with him at all times. That’s why the books were in the car when he went for a drive.”

  “But the question is, why did he go for a drive?” I asked. “Mr. Montour had dinner at Fiona’s restaurant, he didn’t know anyone in the town except perhaps Sadie. Where was the man going at nine o’clock on a Sunday night in Quindicott?”

  “Mr. Montour received a phone call at around eightthirty, if that’s any help,” Fiona offered. “About fifteen minutes later, he went out.”

  “Another mysterious caller,” Seymour said in his woowoo spooky voice. “Could it be the same as-yet unknown person who called 911 while you were at Chesley’s mansion? Only the shadow knows…”

  Anybody going to tell this rube he’s being about as helpful as a rock in your shoe?

  “Two murders and an assault over a set of books,” Milner said. “What I’d like to know is why they’re so special.”

  “Yeah, so they’re old. So what?” Linda shrugged. “You can get the Poe stuff anywhere. It’s not like it’s out of print.”

  “Allow me.” Brainert moved to the podium, a file folder full of papers in his hand. I returned to my seat next to Sadie.

  “Eugene Phelps knew there was not much market for his Poes when he published them,” Brainert explained in his professorial tone. “Phelps also knew there would be limited interest in his dubious scholarship, his rambling introductions. That’s why he buried a secret code inside these books—three of them, in fact.”

  “Codes?” Fiona sounded almost breathless. “Like in The Da Vinci Code?”

  Brainert appeared to have sucked on a lemon. “Kind of like that, Fiona. Only without the secret societies and that nonsense about Mary Magdalene.”

  “No loose women!?” Seymour cracked. “Sheesh, that’s the best part.”

  Bud slammed his hammer. “I want to hear about those codes.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Brainert said. “According to solicitation letters Eugene Phelps sent out to subscribers in the 1920s, there are three codes buried inside these editions. The solution to all three riddles was to reveal the existence and location of a literary and artistic treasure, or so Eugene Arthur Phelps claimed.”

  Bud Napp snorted. “Don’t you think that the premium for that particular prize might have expired after all these years?”

  “Or maybe someone already claimed this marvelous treasure,” Mr. Koh said.

  “Anyway it just sounds nuts,” grumbled the skeptical Bud.

  Brainert nodded. “Maybe. But there is at least one code, which was solved by a scholar named Dr. Robert Conte. Penelope, you may recall that my colleague Nelson Spinner mentioned him? Well, I looked up his research, and I have the Conte paper right here.”

  Seymour crossed his arms above his thick waist and stared at Brainert. “This had better be good.”

  “Dr. Conte did a thorough textual analysis
of the Phelps books as compared to the now-standard Poe text accepted as correct by the Ford Foundation and the Library of America—”

  Bud brought the hammer down. “In English, if you please, Professor. And cut to the chase.”

  Brainert sighed. “Dr. Conte determined that there are errant letters in the first story of each volume of the Phelps Poe books. They look like typographical errors, but if you put them all together and reverse their order, it spells out an actual sentence—” He glanced at the papers on the podium in front of him. “Mystic Library east wall sunset reveals all.”

  I heard Jack Shepard groan in my head. This is starting to sound like decoder ring hooey.

  “Is this riddle meant to reveal a hidden secret about the library in Mystic, Connecticut?” Sadie asked.

  “That’s what Dr. Conte believed, but he was dead wrong. According to my own research”—Brainert grinned and straightened his bow tie—“when Eugene Arthur Phelps was editing his Poes, he lived in a large mansion at the cross streets of Plum and Armstrong in Newport. In the 1940s, the house was converted into apartments and renamed The Arms, but the mansion’s name when Phelps lived there was Mystic House.

  “Ahhh!” said the Quibblers.

  “Inside this Mystic House there was a large, well stocked library, much of it dedicated to the study of Edgar Allan Poe.”

  Seymour arched his eyebrow. “Was?” he said.

  Brainert nodded. “The place was destroyed by a fire in 1956.”

  Bud threw up his hands. “Then I was right. The treasure is lost.”

  “Frankly, I don’t think this treasure ever existed.” Linda Cooper-Logan waved her hand, her silver and jade bracelets janging. “Except as a figment of Eugene Phelps’s imagination. But I guess anyone who becomes obsessed with Edgar Poe is a little crazy, right?”

  Brainert sighed. “Eugene Phelps was a tragic figure. An eccentric, and something of a romantic, too. But I doubt he was crazy, Linda. In fact, it was easy to find parallels between Edgar Allan Poe’s and Eugene Arthur Phelps’s life that may have fueled the latter’s obsession with the former.”