“Really?” Shelby replied. She arched an eyebrow skeptically, even as she brushed a wet ringlet of black hair away from her high, smooth forehead.
“Oh, yes,” I continued, naming the publisher I had worked for, and a brace of popular authors with whom I’d worked in my days as a “publishing professional.”
As I rattled off the names, I realized it was an impressive list, even if my dealings with some of those talents would be casually dismissed as “past history”—because, unfortunately, these days publishing operated on the “What have you done for me lately?” principle. The key, of course, being the post-dot-bomb era’s interpretation of the word “lately,” which used to mean over the past five years, but now meant over the past six weeks (the length of time chain stores gave a book to catch on before it was sent back to the publisher’s warehouse in a DDS truck).
Unfortunately, by the time I was finished reciting my résumé, I felt cheap and hollow. Suddenly I was having a flashback to my worst days in that badly managed New York publishing office, where the overall dynamic was vintage John Bradshaw dysfunctional family.
In my experience, lazy, bad managers were the ones most impressed by the slick self-promoters. The hardest workers, who tended to be boring nose-to-the-grindstone types, were subsequently overlooked. My problem was that I’d been brought up to believe self-promotion was not, in fact, a virtue. Bragging, I’d been taught, was a form of conceit not to be encouraged, respected, or admired. And it’s something I still believe, frankly.
However, when the vulgar endeavor of blowing your own horn becomes the quickest road to advancement in an office, you’re sunk if you keep your mouth shut.
Style over substance, lip service over true service, self-promotion for rank promotion: I shudder to think how many offices in America are managed with this philosophy. But, I fear, it’s an inescapable reality. Thus, boring, dedicated workers go unrewarded—while slick, pushy operators are put in charge.
I actually felt my stomach turn as these memories of office politics washed over me. I wanted to believe I was over all this, that I’d put it firmly behind me with my move north. But Shelby had dragged me right back, down to her level. A few minor insults and I’d stooped to bragging in my own defense.
Don’t be so hard on yourself, said Jack. I got dragged down plenty in back alleys. Sometime there’s nothing you can do about it. Just make sure your punches land.
Okay, maybe I did land a good one: Shelby’s smile became a little more plastic, a little more forced, and I felt that sickly familiar sense of satisfaction. But my victory was fleeting. Women like Shelby were far better than I at this game.
“Interesting bit of experience you’ve had,” she snipped with the sort of creepy cheeriness one usually only hears in a gothic melodrama. “Too bad it’s all behind you. Don’t feel too bad about it, though. Not everyone can hack the big leagues.”
My fantasy about wringing her neck was interrupted, thankfully, by my own private dick. You’ve done a good job distracting her, doll. Now ask about Joshy boy.
Jack was right, of course—and he probably noticed that I’d done a good job distracting myself, too. Okay, I thought, back to business.
“It’s so very difficult to decide about people,” I said, trying hard to keep my delivery casual. “I mean, it takes a truly gifted manager to quickly judge who has the ‘right stuff’ and who is just going to be some total loser, you know? To judge right away who deserves your encouragement and help and who you should crush—for the good of the company, of course.”
“That’s very true.” Shelby’s eyes widened with glee.
Bingo! People like Shelby were fairly transparent. Nailing her “philosophy” on office politics wasn’t hard.
“I wonder, what’s your opinion of someone like Josh?” I asked. “Do you think he’ll make it?”
She flapped her hand. “Josh is a conniving little toady, if you want my unvarnished opinion.”
“Oh, by all means. Don’t hold back.”
“It’s nothing personal. I like him otherwise, you understand. He’s just typical of the kids coming out of college these days. Doesn’t want to listen to people above him—just wants responsibility handed to him. Like this very hot literary author the company’s putting on tour in January. Josh has got it in his head that he can direct the tour, take care of the author, and handle all the media appearances. Crazy. He’s been with the company less than a year, and he’s already lobbying me for a prime assignment like that. But I don’t trust him, frankly. And I think he’d do just about anything to get ahead.”
That gave me pause.
Okay, so I didn’t like Shelby, but I believed what she was saying where Josh was concerned—mainly because her summation was rapid-fire and not in the least forced. There was no sign of the plastic expressions or ingratiating fakeness of her previous exchanges. Nothing phony was present in her judgment of Josh; she’d meant what she’d said.
And what does that tell you? asked Jack.
“It tells me that Josh has a motive for doing something risky, like helping Brennan’s killer,” I silently told Jack, “if the risk helps him advance his career. But I don’t see any connection between Brennan’s death and Josh’s advancement. Unless he’s helping Shelby, and she’s the killer, but what motive would she have for killing Brennan? Her glory was in directing his big book tour—and now that’s over. Shelby had no motive to kill Brennan. None that I can see.”
There’s got to be a connection between Josh and the murderer. You just need to find more dots to connect, doll. So look for more dots.
I was about to ask Shelby more about Josh when I heard footsteps outside. I turned to see a hooded figure lunging toward the door.
I screamed. Shelby Cabot screamed. And the figure recoiled back.
Then he lunged forward again and jiggled the door handle, but found it locked.
“Who is it?” I cried. “Who are you?”
The man pulled down the hood of his L. L. Bean rain slicker and pointed to the handle of the locked door.
“It’s Kenneth!” Shelby said to me. “Kenneth Franken.”
I looked again. It was Kenneth Franken, the late Timothy Brennan’s son-in-law—though right now, with his soaked-through rain slicker and drooping hair, he more resembled a half-drowned lobsterman just finished with his traps.
I unbolted the door. As Kenneth stepped in, the downpour followed him. Rain splattered everywhere.
“I’m sorry I frightened you,” he said.
“Come in and get dry,” I told him.
As he came through the doorway, Kenneth slipped on the wet floor and grabbed my arm to steady himself.
“Excuse me,” he mumbled.
Kenneth Franken’s hand was cold—very cold, and he was soaked to the skin. Obviously, he had been out in the night a long time. I glanced across the street, but that loitering man was gone. I knew then that he had been that man.
How odd, I thought. Why would Franken lurk about in the rain? Why not just knock?
Franken turned to stare at Shelby Cabot. The woman wheeled, deliberately giving him her back, which Kenneth just stared at. So I stood staring at Kenneth. The silence continued until I, for one, was feeling rather embarrassed. I was about to say something to break the obvious tension when Shelby turned around and faced me.
“I am sorry to trouble you,” she said, running her hand through her wet hair. “But could I . . . freshen up somewhere?”
“Certainly,” I said, although her still-flawless makeup seemed Titanic proof to me.
“Upstairs?” she asked, gesturing.
“No. We have rest rooms on this level, beyond the events area near the emergency exit.”
Shelby Cabot nodded and walked off.
When she was out of earshot, Kenneth Franken spoke.
“I’m sorry about my behavior earlier today,” he began. “Getting so upset about the makeup case. With my wife so distraught, I’ve been under a strain. You understand, don’t
you?”
“Of course I understand.”
“Good, good . . . uhm . . . yes . . . well . . . I came by tonight because”—he looked at the floor, then at the shelves, then off in the direction where Shelby had gone—“I was wondering if you knew anything at all about what my late father-in-law announced last evening. The matter about the real Jack Shepard disappearing in this town, maybe on these premises.”
Call me crazy, but it seemed awfully late for him to suddenly come by just to ask a question like that. He’d been here hours ago and hadn’t mentioned a thing about it.
Nevertheless, he’d asked me a direct question, so I searched my mind, sorting through my past experiences growing up in this town. I thought about Aunt Sadie, who’d inherited the store from her father, who’d inherited the store from his brother—a mysterious figure in the family whom I knew very little about.
The fact was, for this question, I’d need some help.
“Jack?” I said aloud, hoping the ghost would silently supply me some facts. But he clearly wasn’t offering any details at the moment.
“Yes, Jack Shepard,” said Kenneth, who assumed, of course, I had spoken to him.
“I’m sorry,” I said after a long pause—and complete silence from my ghost. “I really don’t know what Mr. Brennan was talking about. Of course, you could come back tomorrow and ask my aunt. Sadie’s memory reaches a lot farther back than mine.”
“Perhaps I shall. I do apologize for coming here so late, but I wanted to speak in private. There were so many people around today—you do understand?”
“Yes, of course,” I replied, feeling like he was trying awfully hard to make me not suspect him of anything, which, of course, made me certain he was guilty of something . “You’re welcome to come by anytime, Mr. Franken.”
“Thank you. . . .”
He paused, seeing Shelby Cabot emerge from the shadows of the events room. Her hair was combed, her makeup still perfect, but she didn’t seem noticeably “fresher”; in fact, she seemed more pale, more tense than before.
“I think we’ve troubled Mrs. McClure long enough for one evening,” Kenneth said. Then he handed Shelby her coat. “We should really be going now.”
The emphasis was on “we,” and despite the fact that Shelby Cabot looked like she wished to remain, good manners forced her to say good night.
“I’ll see you again, Mr. Franken?” I asked as neutrally as possible.
“Oh, yes,” he replied. “Detective-Lieutenant Marsh asked my wife and me to stay on for a few days . . . answer any questions that might arise . . . that sort of thing. And you know Deirdre wants to hold a press conference here—when the state medical examiner’s office releases their autopsy findings.”
“Oh, yes, that’s right. Well, good night, then,” I said. I opened the door and ushered the pair into the night.
Immediately, I spoke to the air. “Jack, hurry and follow them.”
Can’t.
“What do you mean, ‘can’t’?”
Through the window, I watched Shelby and Kenneth walk slowly down Cranberry Street, in the direction of Quindicott Pond and Finch’s Inn, which made sense, since they were both checked in there. Suddenly they stopped and began to argue.
“Come on, Jack, get a move on! Get out there!”
Penelope, listen to me. I can’t get beyond the walls and windows of this store. Believe me, doll, I would if I could. There’re plenty of places hipper than this cornball town.
“I don’t understand. Why don’t you just try?”
I have tried.
“And? What happens?”
Have you ever tried breathing on the bottom of the ocean? It’s like that for me, honey. Water, water everywhere—and I’m no fish. That’s how all-powerful I am. Getting noplace fast, and this joint’s my life raft . . . so to speak.
“Great.”
So, doll, you’re the one who’s gonna tail them.
“Me?!”
You saw it yourself. Shelby Cabot and Kenneth Franken behaved like they had something to hide. And a little eavesdropping will probably tell you what pretty quick. So get going.
“Jack, I don’t know—”
Don’t go limp on me now, baby. They know something. And the state’s suspect list could easily have your name on it, so you better get tough and get going. Your marks are going to be gone in a few.
“Crap!”
I hurried to the top of the stairs, where wooden pegs held the family coats. Instead of my traditional canary-yellow slicker, I reached for Sadie’s slate gray fisherman’s coat with a wide-brimmed hood—outerwear designed to stand up against stiff nor’easters. My choice was not guided by the weather, however. I needed the camouflage.
Down the stairs and out the door, I caught sight of my “marks” ahead of me on Cranberry Street. Kenneth and Shelby were slowly moving through the drenching rain, their silhouettes outlined by a nearby streetlight.
The air was raw. Gusts of chilly wind blew the pelting rain up under my hood, spattering drops against my face and dewing my black-framed glasses.
I walked at a brisk pace, though it took only a few steps to determine that my low-heeled shoes weren’t nearly as weather-resistant as my outerwear. In only a moment my feet became soaking wet. Fortunately, the wind and the rain were loud enough to muffle the sound of my footsteps as I began to catch up to Shelby and Kenneth.
“Is this how you tailed ‘marks’ when you were a detective, Jack?” I asked to dispel my nervousness. But before I even finished the question, I knew he wouldn’t reply.
I wanted to believe he’d lied to me, that he’d played me just to get me out here on a tail, but the gaping feeling of emptiness told me he’d been truthful. A void seemed to open up inside me, and I suddenly felt very alone.
“I wish you were here, Jack Shepard,” I murmured.
By now I was close enough to hear Kenneth’s and Shelby’s voices, though I couldn’t quite make out the words. They were agitated; that much was obvious. At one point, Kenneth reached out and grabbed Shelby’s elbow. He tried to push her forward, but she yanked her arm free. I dared to move a little closer.
“Brennan was a bastard . . .” I heard Kenneth say, his tone bitter. “He stood in the way . . .”
The rest of his words were lost in the downpour. Luckily the pair paused at the corner and faced one another. I moved closer, aware that darkness and rain were my only covers.
“Are you sorry you did it?” Shelby asked.
“Of course not,” said Kenneth. “I’d do it again. If only Tim had been reasonable, or even a little grateful, but ‘thank you’ just wasn’t in that man’s vocabulary.”
“Who cares if he never thanked you,” Shelby said, grabbing his wrists. “It doesn’t matter now. Think of the future. Now you can divorce Deirdre. We can have a life. Together.”
Now, this is interesting, I thought.
“Don’t be stupid, Shelby. The police know I had a motive. Deirdre saw to that. She told that lieutenant everything. Who do you think they’re going to arrest, if it comes to that?”
“Don’t worry, darling—”
Kenneth pulled his hands free of her grasp. “Stop it, Shelby!” Kenneth cried. “What’s done is done. It’s over now. All of it.”
Shelby stared at him in silence for a moment. I waited to hear what would come next, but a mechanical roar drowned out her words. A large truck, its driver most likely lost, thundered around the corner and down Cranberry—and I was standing in the street.
For a moment, I froze like the proverbial trapped deer as the glare of headlights bared down. I blindly leaped, falling into a shadowy stairwell just under the fire escape of Lew’s Plumbing and Heating Contractors, Inc.
I had successfully avoided being flattened by the truck or detected by my marks—unfortunately, I’d also landed face first in a puddle of water. Spitting in disgust, I rose to my knees, crawled up the steps, and peeked above the edge of the stairwell. But the rain-swept sidewalk under t
he streetlight was now deserted. Kenneth and Shelby were gone.
CHAPTER 15
An Open Book
These are not books, lumps of lifeless paper, but minds alive on the shelves . . . far distant in time . . . speaking to us, mind to mind, heart to heart.
—Gilbert Highet
AFTER I RETURNED to the bookstore, I locked the door behind me, shut down the lights, and went straight to the second-floor bathroom to clean up and dry off.
Several times, I tried addressing Jack to discuss what I’d overheard between Shelby and Kenneth, but he wasn’t there—or wasn’t answering. So I kissed my sleeping Spencer and went to bed.
For a good fifteen minutes, I lay uncomfortably stiff in the dark, wondering vaguely if my ghost had any interest in me—in this particular position. But I assumed he didn’t. Or else he’d chosen to honor my request that he not haunt the second floor—or else he was here and had clammed up for fear of the grief I’d give him.
Such were my thoughts as I tossed and turned. Finally I gave up, reached to click on the bedside gooseneck, and grabbed Shield of Justice off my nightstand.
To my surprise, even though my eyes were burning from fatigue, I couldn’t put the book down. Page after page went by with exhilarating ease.
Brainert had told me he thought the last three books, and especially this one, represented a marked improvement on the older entries in the series, and I had to agree.
Whatever his faults as a human being, Timothy Brennan had, in his waning years, revived his skills as a writer. The story structure of Shield of Justice was more sophisticated than in novels past. The expected hard-boiled patois was there, but the speech patterns that had once felt dated and at times corny were now portrayed with a kind of bravado—a false front erected by the world-weary characters to hide their damaged souls. More like the Shamus Award-winning Dennis Lehane than the retro purple prose of Mickey Spillane. In fact, the overall use of language was more refined—adjectives in particular were restrained. And the characters felt richer, deeper.
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