The Ghost and Mrs. McClure

by KIMBERLY, ALICE

  “Oh, that’s what Ken told me, too, but the cat’s out of the bag. I blurted out exactly how I felt to that State Police lieutenant this morning. Marsh’s investigation is a waste of time, anyway.” She waved her hand as if it were behind her already. “The autopsy results will clear all that up. My father had a weak heart. It’s obvious that’s why he died.”

  “Well, I really wouldn’t give any more statements,” I said. “Your lawyer should be the one to do that.”

  “That’s what I told her,” said Ken Franken.

  “That’s right, but I’m quite able to speak for myself. That’s partly why I came back to see you. I wanted to have a press conference here when the autopsy results come in,” said Deirdre. “Would that be all right?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “And . . . this is really trivial, but earlier today I couldn’t find my makeup bag, and I can only think that I must have left it in the ladies’ room here last night. I’m so scatterbrained sometimes before my father speaks that I tend to do that sort of thing. Anyway, I did check back there, but it’s gone. Your aunt intercepted me. She said she didn’t know anything about it, but she suggested I speak to you. Did you find it? It’s a small red zipper bag, monogrammed with my initials.”

  I shifted uneasily. “Mrs. Franken, if you left your makeup bag in our rest room, I’m afraid the State Police forensic team has it now.”

  “What?” Kenneth Franken rose in outrage, his tall frame towering over both Deirdre and me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but they were here this morning, bagging and tagging the leftover food and drinks and anything else suspicious they could find.”

  “How could you let them?!” cried Ken.

  I stood up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Franken, but they didn’t ask. They had a warrant.”

  “Ken, please,” said Deirdre, jumping between us. “Don’t take it out on poor Mrs. McClure.”

  “I’m going to look myself,” said Ken, fuming.

  “Dear, it’s the ladies’ room,” said Deidre.

  “So I’ll knock first,” he said. “Excuse me.”

  Kenneth strode away, none too happy, and Deirdre turned to me. “I’m so sorry about that, Mrs. McClure. Ken and I . . . we’ve had our marital troubles, you know? And I think Ken has been overprotective of me in hopes of showing me . . . showing me he wants to make things up. I hope you understand.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Please don’t worry about anything. I’m sure it will all work out just fine. And in the meantime, why don’t you stop by Colleen’s Beauty Shop? She has a line of cosmetics that I’m sure will hold you over until you can get your own things back.”

  “It’s a shame,” said Deirdre.

  “About your father?”

  “About my makeup bag. I had some imported skin treatments in there. Quite expensive.” Deirdre sighed and shook her head. “Oh, well.” Then she looked up and around the room—the same room where her father had expired less than twenty-four hours before.

  Finally her eyes met mine. “I cried all night, Mrs. McClure. So don’t think I’m not sorry to lose him. He may have been a bastard . . . but he was my father.”

  “I understand. More than you know, Mrs. Franken. And if there’s anything more I can do . . .”

  She shook her head, and when Kenneth Franken returned, they departed, empty-handed.

  CHAPTER 10

  Inquiring Minds

  “You goofed, Fletcher. You goofed big.”

  “What did I do?”

  “You quoted somebody who’s been dead for two years . . .”

  “Who says he’s dead?”

  —Managing Editor Frank Jaffee, trying to fire reporter Irwin Fletcher in Fletch and the Widow Bradley by Gregory Mcdonald, 1981

  BY SUNSET, THE crowd had thinned and the streets of Old Q were quieting down. There were about twenty people left browsing—more than Sadie used to get in an entire week before we’d renovated—but by today’s yardstick, the store was practically deserted.

  After we polished off a Franzetti’s cheese pizza on our feet, I sent Spence upstairs with a children’s mystery under his arm, thank goodness. He’d wanted to read a “Spenser for Hire” story, but I showed him that Mr. Parker’s books were a little too long and too complicated for a boy his age to read (not to mention too violent and risqué).

  I slyly suggested he start his mystery reading with a book that would help him improve his reading ability, so he could one day read all about his namesake: Spenser for Hire. That did the trick. He picked out Louis Sachar’s Newbery-winning Holes, and announced he was going to read every book in the children’s section by next summer. Then he was off.

  “Someone’s checking you out,” Linda whispered to me as she helped me ring up one of the last few customers.

  “Who?” I asked. “The guy over there?” I cocked my head in the general direction of a balding man in his forties wearing khakis and a green sweater. He was lurking in the used-book section, a Buy the Book bag tucked under his arm.

  “That’s a collector,” Sadie interjected. “Along with the Brennan book he bought a copy of Colin Wilson’s Ritual in the Dark from the resale section. Recognized a bargain when he saw one—an out-of-print first edition with dust jacket, in not too shabby condition.”

  Linda blinked as if Sadie were speaking in tongues. “Ritual in the Dark? Never heard of that one,” she said.

  “It’s a British thriller set in the 1960s, but based on the murders of Jack the Ripper,” said Sadie. “And considering his taste in reading, I’d say date the guy with caution.”

  “Thank goodness I wasn’t talking about him then,” Linda said. “I meant that one!”

  Linda nodded in a direction vaguely to the left of the green-sweater guy. I shifted my gaze and ran smack into the eyes of a handsomeish man in his midthirties with large, perfect teeth; slicked-back, dark brown hair; and round Harry Potter-esque glasses.

  I don’t know why, but the idea that he might be a car salesman came to mind. That or an actor. Must have been the teeth.

  To my surprise, the man’s smile grew when our eyes met. Suddenly he was crossing the store, making a beeline toward me.

  “What do you think he wants?” I whispered, acutely aware I was still rather hung over. Last time I’d glanced in the restroom mirror, I’d had red eyes, drawn skin, and smeared lipstick.

  “He’s sort of cute,” Linda said in the perky go-get-him tone I hadn’t heard her use on me since junior high. “Nice threads, too.”

  Before I could answer Linda, the man’s creased khakis, snow-white button-down, and tailored navy jacket were heading right for me. The toothy smile came at me with such dazzling brilliance I briefly considered installing him permanently in our dimly lit back room.

  “Hi, there. I’m a senior editor with Independent Bookseller magazine. I was in the area, and I thought I might take a few notes for a story about your charming store.”

  I stepped around the counter and stood toe to toe with the man. He was only about two inches taller than I, which wasn’t very tall for a man since I’m a shoeless five-four, but he was more than passing fit. The jacket did little to disguise the fact that he was plenty musclebound, with very broad shoulders and a thick neck and arms.

  “Howie Westwood,” he said brightly, holding out his hand.

  Wow, I thought. The guy’s energy level almost spiked my own wattage shortage. “Hello,” I managed as I reached to shake. “I’m Penelope Thornton-McClure.”

  He took my hand in his and looked into my eyes. “Pleased to meet you, Penelope. Oh, excuse me. May I call you Penelope?”

  “Yes, of course.” He was still holding my hand. I eased my grip, but he held on. The guy was strong. Somewhere amid my responding hormones, I registered the fact that his palms felt callused. A yachtsman? I wondered.

  “You must be the owner—” he began.

  “Co-owner,” I cut in, correcting him. “My aunt is the original owner. Sadie Thornton.” I gestured to
ward her with my free hand and he lifted his chin at her—a little too dismissively, I thought. And didn’t appreciate. I tugged my hand back.

  “This is truly a unique space,” Howie said with easy admiration. “Quite an achievement. You must have considerable retail experience.”

  “Thank you,” I said. And that’s all I said. The guy was attractive; Linda was right about that. But that was no reason to instantly trust him.

  “You wouldn’t think a town as small as Quindicott could support a store of this size.”

  A fair question, and an observant one, I decided. Okay, maybe the guy was good at what he did. “Well, plenty of tourists pass through here on their way to Newport and the Cape,” I said. “You’d be surprised at how many. And we have a considerable mail order business. Out-of-print books, rare first printings, special editions.”

  “Web site?”

  “Not yet, but it’s on the drawing boards,” I lied. I’d been way too busy to figure that one out—but maybe by the time the article ran, I’d get something under e-construction.

  I felt Sadie’s eyes on my back and stole a glance in her direction. She was smiling and nodding—the matchmaker nod. Eeeesh. I shot back the warning look: I am not in the market for a match, thank you very much!

  “Of course, like everyone else, I heard about the incident last night, and about Timothy Brennan’s death,” Howie Westwood said.

  “Yes,” I said, frowning. “A terrible thing.”

  “Not really so terrible for you, though, right? I mean, business looks pretty good. You and your aunt seem to be profiting nicely from Brennan’s death.”

  For a moment, I was speechless. It was true. He was right. I couldn’t deny it. But hearing it stated so coldly, so matter-of-factly . . . it made me feel awful.

  “We didn’t plan for this to happen,” I finally murmured. “And as you can see, we haven’t raised the price of the book, despite the inflated bidding on eBay. We’re not trying to take advantage—we’re just handling the customers who’ve come to us. And I assure you, Mr. Westwood, Brennan’s death was a terrible thing to witness.”

  “Witness . . . yes,” Howie continued. “And the whole thing unfolding in front of his daughter and son-in-law. They were right here attending the talk, right? Were they close to Mr. Brennan when he . . . was stricken?”

  I wasn’t surprised by his questions. But with autopsy results still pending and Brennan’s family still in Quindicott, I felt it was the proper thing to duck any touchy questions—just as I’d ducked them with the television interviews earlier in the day.

  Television . . . my mind considered the fact that a few of those interviews had already aired. I suddenly wondered if that was why Howie was here. Had he seen one of those interviews and—noting the lack of details—decided to come by himself and try his hand at prying them loose? Well, I couldn’t blame the guy for trying, I decided. But still, I held firm:

  “Many people attended last night’s event,” I told him. “And many people rushed to Mr. Brennan’s aid. I think it’s best if you ask Mr. Brennan’s family these questions. They’re staying right here in town, at Finch’s Inn. It’s on the eastern edge of town, on the pond. Well, we call it a pond, but it’s really a small lake at the end of a coastal inlet.”

  “Of course,” Howie Westwood replied. Though the smile was still plastered on his face, behind his little round glasses I saw a cold curtain draw down across the man’s green eyes.

  “Could you show me around?” he said, his charm returning, a little more forced this time.

  “Sure,” I said.

  After all, like Publishers Weekly, Independent Bookseller was a respected magazine in the industry of bookselling, especially for its often-quoted review section. Its circulation had fallen off in the past decade, of course, with the closing of so many independent bookstores—due to the gross sales dollars of the book business being hijacked by the chain stores (and I’m not just talking Borders and Barnes & Noble, but also places such as Costco, Wal-Mart, and Sam’s Club, where you could toss your Grisham in a cart with your economy crates of grapefruit and galoshes).

  In any event, I wanted to be cooperative. An article in Independent Bookseller would be lovely for Buy the Book. It would influence publicists to put our store on their “A list” author tours, and it might even get Sadie and me invited to some of those boffo celebrity book parties thrown by big publishers at next May’s BEA (BookExpo America, that is, the nation’s largest trade show for publishers and booksellers).

  I showed Howie the store, talked about the strategy for moving inventory, the customer base, the Shaker rockers, the renovations—everything and anything except the traumatic events of the night before. He took notes by way of a small tape recorder.

  Each time he broached the subject of my opinion of Timothy Brennan and his family and the play-by-play of his death the night before—and there were more than a few times when he did—I answered by being as politely vague as possible (I lived with my prying in-laws long enough to become familiar with that sort of lingual dexterity).

  Finally we reached the community events space, right near the podium Timothy Brennan was standing behind when he collapsed. Howie Westwood again pressed me for details about the incident. He couldn’t miss the tone of impatience I now had in my voice as I replied,

  “Look, why don’t you interview Shelby Cabot? She was the woman in charge of the publicity tour for Salient House and—”

  “Penelope, come on. She’s Salient House’s spokesperson.” He stared at me.

  “Yes. Meaning?”

  “Meaning her mouth is programmed to speak only in empty corporate syllables. She’s never going to give me any real details—the sort of details that will make the article on your bookstore worth reading, if you catch my meaning.”

  “Oh, I catch your meaning.” I folded my arms. “Sorry, Charlie.”

  “The name’s Howie.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  He blinked, his smile disappearing. Then, smoothly, it reappeared. “You’re sure a tough one, Penelope, I’ll give you that. Okay, then, I’ll look her up.”

  His charm was still there, but his polish was dimming, and I began to wonder if he wasn’t some other kind of reporter—like maybe from a supermarket tabloid. I nearly shuddered as a headline flashed through my mind: CURSED BOOKSTORE PROVOKES FAMOUS AUTHOR’S DEATH. ARE MORE IN STORE?

  “I had better get back to the register,” I said after an awkward pause.

  “Of course,” Howie said, nodding. “I’ll just take a few notes about the look of the room if that’s okay.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. Then I raced to the front counter.

  “Whoa, honey, where’s the fire?” said Aunt Sadie.

  “What happened?” asked Linda. “Did he ask you out to dinner? Do you want to check your makeup?”

  “No, no, no, for heaven’s sake!” I cried, bending under the counter to search the shelves. “Where is it?! Where is it?!”

  “Where’s what?” the two women chorused.

  “HERE!”

  I snatched up my latest copy of Independent Bookseller, which I always kept alphabetically above issues of Kirkus, Library Journal, select printouts of an inner-circle e-newsletter called Publishers Lunch, and Publishers Weekly.

  “Where’d you leave lover boy?” asked Sadie.

  “In the events room,” I said. “And don’t call him that!”

  “What are you looking for?” asked Linda as I flipped the front pages of the magazine until I reached the masthead.

  My finger followed the small print down to the names of the staff writers. “Ohmygod, it really is him.”

  “Him who?” asked Linda. “Lover boy?

  I shot her an unhappy look and pointed to the magazine page. Sure enough, the name was there: Howie Westwood, Senior Editor.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Sadie.

  “I thought he was lying—that he was from a supermarket tabloid or something.”

&
nbsp; “Did you blow it?” asked Linda.

  “I think so,” I said. I hadn’t played ball. I’d been mildly hostile. And he’d implied some pretty caustic things about the store’s connection to the Brennan death. That was sure to reflect itself in the tone he used to write about the store.

  “It’s not too late,” said Linda. “Invite him out tonight.”

  “No!”

  “Don’t be foolish,” said Sadie. “You deserve some fun. And the man obviously likes you.”

  “You think?” I said. A pathetic equivocation.

  “For sure,” said Linda. “And he’s a cutey. Go get him.”

  “It’s really not like that,” I insisted. “It’s just business.”

  Right, I thought. Who are you kidding? Certainly not them.

  I put down the magazine and headed down the aisle. Along the way, I ran a hand through my copper tangles, adjusted my black-framed glasses, and straightened my loose white blouse.

  Okay, there were things about Westwood that seemed a little too slick, a little too smooth, but it had been a long time since my late husband and I had . . . well, connected . . . on any level. At least Westwood reported on the book business, so we had something to talk about. And Sadie and Linda seemed to think he liked me. Maybe offering to show him around town wouldn’t be too forward.

  I was barely able to catch him at the front door. “Mr. Westwood?”

  “Oh, uh, Mrs. McClure. Thank you for your time.”

  “No problem. I just wanted to tell you that I really do think Shelby Cabot will be helpful for your story,” I said, trying to make up for my earlier frostiness. “She’s staying at Finch’s Inn, too, with the Brennan family, and she can probably even get you the names of those two young cameramen.”

  “Cameramen?” Howie Westwood’s eyes widened behind his little round glasses.

  “Yes,” I said. “Two young men taped the whole event for C-SPAN. Didn’t you know that?”

  Howie Westwood paled. “Nobody knows that. At least, I haven’t seen it reported.”

  “Anyway, before you go, I was wondering . . .”