Smells were stronger. Sounds were louder. Touch and taste were even possible in strange ways. And without any physical barriers to block his movements, he could now pass through furniture and floors, experiencing the feel of them on entirely new levels. Only the brick and mortar of this building were impenetrable to him, rendering him a prisoner here.
So what else was he going to do to pass the time? Surveillance work had been his profession—and, as they say, old habits die hard. Besides, the plain truth was, witnessing Timothy Brennan’s murder had awakened Jack Shepard in peculiar new ways.
“A little too cold . . . almost there.”
Jack heard Penelope’s thoughts and wondered yet again what made this doll so special. He didn’t know why, but he had to admit, he was curious.
First of all, in Jack’s experience, communication with the living had been rare, limited mainly to giving all comers the shakes to the gate. The very idea that he could hear her thoughts at all was an oddity. Only two other beings in the last fifty-plus years had been able to broadcast their thoughts to him—and they had been children.
Second of all—and this was the real kicker—she could hear his passing thoughts whenever he desired it, and with the least amount of effort on his part. Never happened before, not to Jack. And with her prissy attitude irritating the hell out of him, Jack wasn’t so sure he was very happy about it.
Case in point: Downstairs.
First, she refused to take his advice and give that insulting pink-cloaked goon of a councilwoman what for. Instead, she played the do-right girl, held her tongue to keep everything nicey-nice.
That sort of I’ll-do-anything-to-keep-from-upsetting-the-applecart philosophy of living really grated on Jack. While a poker face was routinely necessary for the detection racket, when it came to family and friends, Jack believed that cards on the table, face up, was the only way to play it.
Next, she completely brushed off his warning that the State Police were here to find a perp to fit their profile. The once-over that detective-lieutenant gave Penelope had “you’re a suspect” written all over it. Maybe that councilwoman tipped him, maybe he simply reviewed the witness statements from the night before, but he was making her for some sort of guilty party, and she refused to acknowledge it—yet another thing that grated on Jack: denial. Put your head in the sand and it’ll all go away. That’s not how Jack played the game, and if Penelope kept playing it her way, she’d be picked off like a clay pigeon at a sharpshooters’ picnic.
“Ah, yes . . . that’s the way I like it: warm . . . soothing . . . inviting.”
Penelope had finally adjusted the water temperature to her liking. Flipping up a central lever, she directed the flow through the shower nozzle above. Water rained down, and she leaned back to avoid its splash.
Stepping away from the curtain, she unzipped her wrinkled black skirt and let it pool at her feet on the tile floor. After stepping free of it, she slipped her fingers beneath the waistband of the pantyhose, whipping them off in one swift movement—much faster than Jack would have liked.
With an ethereal sigh, he remembered the old-style stockings that dames used to wear—garter belts holding up each silky leg separately. Some even put on a little grind for him, taking their good old time unsnapping them, rolling them off, their eyes watching his for a pleasurable reaction. A few dolls actually preferred to leave the silky stockings in place, removing only their panties so he could—
“You’re not here, are you?”
Standing with hands on hips in her pale blue sweater set and virginal white panties, Penelope had addressed the empty air. Or at least it would have looked like empty air to the living eye.
He considered for a moment revealing himself to her. But he instantly thought better of it. He was simply having too much fun. For a dead guy, fun wasn’t exactly a part of the daily vocab.
“You better not be here. I mean it.”
Jack was dying to ask how she thought a “delusion” could spy on her in the shower, anyway. But he exercised self-control and kept silent.
Next she removed her glasses, then the loose blue sweater set, first shrugging off the exterior cardigan and then tugging the pullover up and off.
An innocent cotton bra displayed ample mounds of flesh. Hers were the sort of generous curves Jack had favored when he’d been alive. And the sight of her womanly form, standing there in her bra and panties, struck Jack like a wall of bricks.
She seemed so vulnerable and soft, like the sweet idea of home. Here was everything he’d wanted in a woman . . . when he’d wanted a woman.
A longing washed over Jack, moving him. And, despite himself, he ached for something he knew he could never have.
Suddenly, he couldn’t watch anymore. He retreated instead, back through the closed door, down the hallway, and into the living room. The digital television was on again and—once he adjusted the channel changer to a good crime show—it was sure to provide a much-needed distraction.
CHAPTER 9
Dying for Profit
You are not booksellers, you are retailers. . . . You’ll only win this battle if you are damn good at something and provide the consumer with a better experience. . . . If you don’t like change, you’re going to like irrelevance even less. . . . The glory days for independent booksellers are gone.
—Tom Peters, keynote address, British Booksellers Association, 2003
PROVIDENCE, RI (ap)—Last night’s death of internationally best-selling author Timothy Brennan has cast an unusual spotlight on Quindicott, Rhode Island, a small hamlet just outside of Newport.
The site of Brennan’s death was the town’s only bookstore. According to local officials, he collapsed during a public talk in which he announced Shield of Justice would be his last Jack Shield novel.
An autopsy is being conducted by the state medical examiner. In the meantime, bids on eBay for first edition copies of Shield of Justice bought at Buy the Book are topping $100.00 a copy.
Although sales of Jack Shield novels had floundered in the midnineties, Brennan’s most recent efforts were the strongest he’d ever written, according to critics, and an upcoming feature film deal was reportedly in the making. Consequently, Brennan’s abrupt announcement that he intended to stop writing Shield novels shocked his fans and the publishing world.
“Quitting while you’re ahead isn’t an unheard-of strategy,” said Parker Peterson, president and publisher of Salient House, “but Tim had just hit his stride again. So, of course, it was a shock to us.”
Brennan’s death was also a shock to his fans and even his third and most recent wife, who had chosen to remain in the couple’s New York City apartment rather than accompany her husband on his book tour.
“He had a weak heart, sure,” said Mrs. “Bunny” Brennan, “but it wasn’t that bad, you know? Timmy just had a physical. He wanted to make sure he was healthy enough to make the book tour, you know?—and he was, too. The doctor said he was fit as a fiddle. I’m really, really shocked.”
The store, which now goes by the name Buy the Book, was the last place detective Jack Shepard had been seen before his disappearance nearly fifty years before, Brennan said. Shepard was the real-life model for Brennan’s Jack Shield character, star of nineteen novels and two TV series.
Brennan also revealed he planned to write his next and last book as a nonfiction investigation into Jack Shepard’s last unsolved case.
“Pen! Can . . . you . . . believe . . . this?!”
I was standing behind the counter next to Sadie, helping her ring up and bag. The Staties had let us reopen at one o’clock, and three hours later, Linda Cooper-Logan was jumping up and down in front of me, trying to lift her head of short, spiky blond hair above the crush of customers crowding the Buy the Book checkout area.
“Linda, what are you doing here?” I called. “Doesn’t Milner need you at the bakery?”
“Closed—an hour ago!”
“Why?”
“Sold . . . everything
!”
“For heaven’s sake, Linda, come around the counter.” I lifted the hinged section of heavy oak and shouted into the crowd: “Let this woman through, please!”
Outside, the cobblestone streets of Quindicott were jammed with cars, and Buy the Book’s aisles were packed with customers. I still would have been guessing the reason why if Seymour Tarnish, our mailman (and the biggest local celebrity since his recent win on Jeopardy), hadn’t stopped by to inform us that a tiny Associated Press side-bar about Buy the Book—which included news of inflated bidding on eBay for copies of Shield of Justice purchased at our store—was being featured beside Brennan’s New York Times obituary on one of the most visited of World Wide Web addresses, the Drudge Report.
According to Seymour, local radio stations had started discussing the death of Brennan, the bidding for the books—and our store. This explained the crowds descending, along with local television camera crews looking to interview me and Sadie.
“I brought you all the last of Milner’s five-nut tarts,” said Linda, holding the pastry box high as she swam through the jostling bodies and lunged behind the counter. “I thought you might be hungry over here.”
“Excuse me!” a loud voice called. “Do you have any more copies of Shield of Justice? The display is empty.”
“Empty!” cried a chorus of horrified voices as a new crowd pushed through the front door.
“Keep your pants on, people!” called Sadie. “We have plenty of copies—”
“I have some! I have some!” Spencer called, hurrying toward the front of the store, his arms filled with jacketed hardcovers.
For hours, my son had been helping us behind the counter. Just ten minutes ago he’d taken his first break—to visit the rest room. Obviously, he’d decided to make a side trip to the stockroom. He set down the stack of books and began placing them into the empty display like a seasoned floor manager.
Someone reached over his head to snag a copy.
“Guess they don’t have child labor laws in Rhode Island,” a middle-aged man near the register quipped to his companion.
Lawyer joke. Ha-ha.
“Whoever is driving a black BMW convertible with Connecticut plates, please move it. You’re blocking my SUV!” shouted a woman through the front door.
Spencer appeared at my side, his face flushed. “The display was filled,” he said excitedly, “but it’s going to be empty real soon. I’ll have to bring out more books.”
I handed him a tart from the Cooper Family Bakery box. “Honey, go upstairs, pour a glass of milk, and take a break, okay?”
“I’ll get some milk, but then I’m coming right back down!” he replied. “You need me. I’m your official stamper, you know!”
“I know, honey, but I don’t want you to get too tired,” I said, remembering how sensitive his father had been to any form of exertion.
Calvin never could endure any sort of tension for long. He said hard work was too upsetting for him. Stomach-churning. No way to live. Of course, Calvin had ultimately decided living itself was no way to live, either.
“I’ll be right back. I’m not tired at all.” Then, nut tart raised high, he parted the crowd, announcing, “Don’t worry, folks. We have plenty of copies of that Shield book!”
The transformation from indifferent kid to dedicated bookseller seemed nothing short of miraculous to me.
“He looks happy for once,” said Linda.
“It’s simple,” said Sadie. “Being needed is the best medicine, and right now we need all the help we can get.”
“Ab-sh-o-lulley!” I garbled around the nut tart, stuffed into my cheeks like a famished squirrel.
“Milner says if we have a few more days like this, we can finally afford that new awning,” said Linda as Sadie and I continued to ring up and bag the customers’ purchases.
“It’s entirely possible,” I said. “Sadie and I gave three television interviews so far today.”
“Ohmygod, we’re rich,” said Linda. “Your store’s put Quindicott on the map!”
“Well, tell that to our favorite councilwoman,” I said.
“The Municipal Zoning Witch? Why?” asked Linda.
“She stopped by this morning, primarily to threaten us,” I said.
“Oh, yeah,” said Sadie. “Pinkie was in rare form. She predicted our author appearance fiasco last night would turn the town’s economic clock backward.”
“Well, I never knew this town had an economic clock,” said Linda. “But if it does, I’d say you two set it to running on fast forward. Franzetti’s Pizza and Sam’s Seafood Shack is jammed. The gas station has a line around the block, Colleen’s turning away manicure customers, and Seymour’s ice cream truck looks like a mosh pit.”
“A mosh what?” asked Sadie.
“It’s kind of like when bobby-soxers used to rush the stage at a Sinatra concert,” Linda explained.
“Geez, Louise, you don’t have to go back that far,” said Sadie. “An Elvis analogy would have sufficed.”
“Speaking of mosh pits,” I said, “we’re going to be in the middle of one ourselves if we don’t get more books on the floor.”
“I’ll go,” said Sadie. “Linda, you take over Spencer’s place? Pen can ring up the purchases.”
“Hey, whoever works here!” called a male voice near the floor display. “Your Brennan display is almost empty again!”
Sadie flipped up the hinged counter. “Well, as that Statie detective put it this morning, looks like death is good for business.”
“Okay,” said Linda, “put me to work. What was Spence doing, anyway?”
“Stamping and bagging,” I said.
“Bagging I’ve heard of, but what the heck is ‘stamping’?”
“It’s simple,” I said, slapping the rubber stamper into her hand. As I spoke, I rang up another sale: four copies of Shield of Justice, the latest Janet Evanovich, and a book from our out-of-print section, one of the first U.S. editions of Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express—published by Dodd, Mead in 1934 as Murder in the Calais Coach. (I was gratified to see customers buying other titles in addition to Brennan’s book.)
I handed the purchases to Linda, opening the Shield of Justice cover, and pointed.
“Oh, I see!” said Linda as she pressed the stamper down. The ink branded the inside front cover with a simple seal: an open book surrounded by a magnifying glass and the words propErtY OF BUY THE BOOK. “Oooo! Nice touch,” she said.
“Spence was the one who thought of it,” I said, ringing up the next customer. “When we first opened today, this nice, soft-spoken gentleman asked for a book plate from the store—he wanted some way to mark the book as having been purchased here. And Spence remembered how we rubber-stamp our incoming cartons—so he stamped the man’s book personally.
“You know, the man even called him ‘Spenser for Hire,’ and now Spence thinks he’s named after a Robert B. Parker private detective. It made him happy, so I didn’t remind him that he’s actually named after a McClure.”
“Pen!” called Sadie not ten minutes later. “There’s some people to see you.”
I looked up to find two familiar faces approaching the counter.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. McClure,” said Timothy Brennan’s daughter, Deirdre Brennan-Franken.
She doesn’t look good. That was my first impression, and it had nothing to do with fashion. In fact, her emerald suit with matching scarf was as impeccably tailored as the burgundy outfit she’d worn the night before. But today her cheeks were sunken, her red hair unwashed, her eyes bloodshot. She looked as though she’d been crying all night.
Beside her, Kenneth Franken stood, wearing that same beautiful camel-hair jacket, a fresh white shirt, open-collared, and pressed brown slacks.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” said Deirdre, “with your store so busy and everything, but . . .”
I immediately lifted up the counter, and Sadie took my place at the register. Then I ushered Deirdre and Ke
nneth away from the crowded main store and into the quieter community events space. After I set up a few folding chairs, we all sat.
“I wanted to come by sooner,” said Deirdre, “but we had a lot to take care of, speaking to family members, my father’s lawyer, and the state investigators had so many questions.” She glanced at her husband, who looked especially uncomfortable with the mention of the police.
“I’m so sorry about what happened, Mrs. Franken. The way he died, right in front of you. It’s quite a shock, something like that, I know from personal experience. You should really be taking it easy—give yourself time to grieve. . . .”
Suddenly Deirdre burst into tears, putting her head in her hands. I looked at Kenneth, who frowned and quickly pulled out a handkerchief for her. He didn’t need it, I noted; his eyes were as dry as petrified bone.
“That’s the trouble, Mrs. McClure,” she said as she wiped her eyes. “A part of me is actually glad he’s dead.”
“You shouldn’t say that,” I told her. And yet a secret part of me understood completely. Not so much because of Timothy Brennan, but Calvin McClure.
“I know, I know,” said Deidre. “It’s terrible. But it’s how I feel. He was a contemptible man. Thoroughly selfish and so very cruel—a bully really, especially to Ken—”
“You still shouldn’t say it,” I warned. “I mean, I know it’s how you feel, and I know that’s the truth of death—that it can stir up many things, as much resentment and rage as anything else, but the reason you shouldn’t say it is because the State Police are investigating his death. And you don’t want to give them the wrong idea. Especially if you’re inheriting anything.”
“I’m inheriting everything,” said Deirdre. “It all comes to me. Even his third wife isn’t getting a penny—because he’d already grown tired of her and was planning a divorce.”
“Then you really should keep your feelings private,” I said.
The Ghost and Mrs. McClure Page 7
