“What do we do?” I said. “Brennan isn’t about to rise from the dead to sign these now—”
I wouldn’t make book on that.
Ohmygod.
“You’re right. We’ll never move this many copies,” said Sadie. “After last night’s run, I think we already must have sold a Shield of Justice book to every Jack Shield fan in a fifty-mile radius.”
“Can’t you just send back the unopened boxes to the publisher on Monday for credit? No harm done?” asked Brainert.
“Normally, yes,” I said. “But Salient House just instituted a new penalty policy.”
“Oh, dear. I’d forgotten,” said Sadie.
To discourage returns, the publisher now made bookstores pay a penalty when returning more than 50 percent of any order. Plus postage.
“We’ll still come out ahead,” said Sadie.
“Yes, but it’s a shame to lose any of the profit,” I told her. “We need every penny—”
“Well, why don’t we at least refill the display?” she suggested. “Who knows, we might move a few copies over the weekend.”
We unpacked exactly one box of Shield of Justice and wheeled the remaining nineteen into the back, where I rubber-stamped them with the “Property of Buy the Book” seal. But I knew that designation was only temporary.
On Monday, the bulk of this shipment would surely go back to the publisher’s warehouse under the most dreaded designation in the book trade—a ghastly, horrifying word no bookseller, publisher, or author ever wished to utter:
RETURNS.
CHAPTER 7
Crime Scene
Chandler began to wonder whether even hard-boiled murder stories were not going to seem “a bit on the insignificant side” . . . considering the publicity given to real-life urban homicide.
—Tom Hiney, Raymond Chandler: A Biography
AS I RETURNED from the storage room, I noticed a crowd gathering on the sidewalk.
Customers? Already?
Buy the Book wasn’t supposed to open for another fifteen minutes or so, but now I considered opening early. I glanced briefly at the crowd and spied a familiar face: Josh, Shelby Cabot’s assistant from Salient House. I assumed he’d come to pay a courtesy call on behalf of the publisher. “We’re so sorry our author dropped dead on you and we stocked your business with an immovable ton of his unsigned books.”
I was just calculating how many Shield of Justice cases he could haul back to New York City with him—thereby allowing us to dodge the penalty and postage—when the crowd spotted me at the door and began to surge forward. I reached to flip the CLOSED sign to OPEN when something slapped against the window and stayed there. A Rhode Island State Policeman had just announced his presence by smacking his gold badge against my window.
The door opened and I jumped backward. A huge figure loomed in the doorway. Massive shoulders blocked out the sun. I saw a square chin covered with blond stubble, a bull neck, icy-gray eyes, and that big gold badge.
Suddenly I felt queasy all over again.
“Excuse me, ma’am. My name is Detective-Lieutenant Roger Marsh of the Crime Investigation Unit of the State Police. I have a warrant to seal and search these premises and any indoor or outdoor space attached to this address—”
He dangled an official-looking document in front of me as a small bull-necked army of men—some in plain-clothes, with silver metal attaché cases, and some wearing gray uniforms with red trim and Smokey the Bear hats—filed into my store.
“Why? Whatever could you want here?” Sadie demanded, rushing out of the stockroom. Lieutenant Marsh ignored her, his eyes fixed on me.
“—And to confiscate any and all materials deemed relevant to the investigation,” he continued.
“But—” I muttered.
Lieutenant Marsh’s cold gray eyes shut me up. He studied me with such ferocity, I felt my cheeks burning with a sudden flush, realizing how disheveled I must have looked. Marsh noticed my discomfort immediately. I swear his eyes grew even more frosty.
“What investigation?” I asked, finally regaining the power of speech.
“The investigation into the events surrounding a suspicious death that occurred on these premises last evening,” Lieutenant Marsh replied, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Suspicious death?” Brainert said with a snort. “Don’t you mean ‘mishap’?”
The lieutenant’s eyes shifted to Brainert.
“Who are you, sir? And why are you here?”
I could see Brainert’s thin chest swell as his face turned scarlet with indignation. I took a breath and waited for the explosion. But before it came, Officer Eddie Franzetti of the Quindicott Police hurried through the door and practically threw himself between the lieutenant and Brainert. Behind Eddie came four more officers of the State Police, and Eddie’s partner, Officer Tibbet. Beyond them I could see the shocked and surprised faces of the crowd still waiting on the sidewalk to enter the store.
“I think you should leave now, Professor Parker,” Eddie said diplomatically as he took hold of Brainert’s arm. “Let’s give Lieutenant Marsh the space he needs to do his job.”
“I . . . I . . .” Brainert stammered.
As graceful as a dancer, Eddie sent Brainert into his partner’s arms, who led Brainert out the door. Then Officer Franzetti turned and faced us. “Detective-Lieutenant Marsh needs access to any foods or beverages left over from last night’s event,” he explained, looking at me. “And his forensics team will need to see where the garbage was dumped.”
I stammered, unable to help Detective-Lieutenant Marsh for the simple reason that I was in an alcohol-induced slumber when the community events space was cleaned and the chairs folded. Fortunately, Aunt Sadie stepped in.
“There are some bottles of water in the storeroom,” she said. “And the garbage from last night was thrown into the Dumpster in back.”
Detective-Lieutenant Marsh nodded to his team, and two uniformed officers took off—presumably to the back to retrieve our suspicious garbage.
“Lock that door,” Marsh barked.
“We’re due to open—” Sadie said.
“Only when we’re done here,” Detective-Lieutenant Marsh said. “Not before. Right now these premises are considered a crime scene and are closed to the public until my forensics team gathers evidence and completes their initial investigation.”
Aunt Sadie nodded.
The plainclothed detective turned and scanned the sidewalk. “Looks like death was good for business,” Marsh said meaningfully. Then his eyes fixed on me once again.
“I will also need to interview”—he doubled-checked the warrant in his hand—“a Mrs. Penelope Thornton-McClure.”
I nodded, getting more and more uncomfortable under the lieutenant’s suspicious gaze.
“If you need to see the leftovers, just follow me,” Sadie said. She turned and marched to the storeroom.
Marsh and the last of his uniformed Staties followed Aunt Sadie. When they were out of sight—and earshot—Eddie turned to me. We both let out sighs at the same time.
Officer Eddie Franzetti, the eldest son of Joe Franzetti, was one of my late brother’s best friends back in high school. Though now a family man, he still retained his boyish charm. And he was quite handsome—especially so in his dark blue police uniform. Unlike his brothers, who were content to sling pizza dough at the family restaurant, Eddie wanted something different out of life. A stint in the military was followed by a job on the local police force—and marriage to the most popular girl in Quindicott High School. I always liked Eddie and knew I could trust him to be straight with me now.
“So what’s going on?” I asked in a soft whisper.
Eddie tilted his hat back and scratched his head. “Apparently, Councilwoman Binder-Smith made a few phone calls last night after she heard what happened here. When the police chief was less than responsive to the councilwoman’s ‘suggestions’ she went over his head.”
“To the State Police!”
I said. “She must have called in a lot of favors to get them involved.”
“Not really. All it takes is a request from a town official—the mayor, the police, or a town councilman—to bring in the Staties,” explained Eddie. “And if the circumstances require it, a warrant can be issued within minutes.”
“Great. Thanks for the civics lesson.”
I told myself it didn’t matter. Once the autopsy came through—and it was officially established that Timothy Brennan’s death was from natural causes—then all of this was sure to go away. But a voice inside told me that my troubles were only beginning. And another voice—not mine at all—said something I didn’t want to hear:
Baby, sounds to me like you’re a picture being fitted for a frame, and the name of that frame is murder.
I leaned against the counter, trying to catch my breath. I told myself to ignore the “ghost” voice and be reasonable, logical, practical.
“Brennan wasn’t murdered,” I silently told myself—and that annoying deep voice. “He died of some sort of stroke or heart attack. An autopsy will certainly prove it, and then all this . . . mess will go away.”
Officer Franzetti was still speaking, but I just nodded at his words, not really hearing them.
Outside, I noticed the crowd swelling. Even on top of the other shocks of this morning, that surprised me. I thought the arrival of the State Police would have scared them off. Instead it seemed to attract even more curious people.
I searched the crowd for the face of Josh, the young man from Salient House. But he was gone—the only one the army of State Policemen seemed to scare, I noted.
“Eddie, excuse me,” I suddenly said. “I need to go upstairs, see to my son, and clean up.”
“Oh, sure, Pen. Take your time.” His chin gestured toward the Staties at work. “I know they will.”
Great. Just great, I thought. A record crowd at opening, and we’re closed for an episode of CSI.
CHAPTER 8
Curious Jack
There are things happening. . . . They go on right under your very nose and you never know about them.
—Mike Hammer, My Gun Is Quick by Mickey Spillane, 1950
AFTER ALL THESE decades, the ghost of Jack Shepard knew the layout at 122 Cranberry like the back of his hand—that is, like he used to know the back of his hand.
Six rooms occupied the second floor: a sunny eat-in kitchen with faded gold wallpaper and yellow curtains, a cozy living room with a smoke-stained fireplace and tall front windows, two large bedrooms, one child-size bedroom, and one bath. The old rooms were always kept tidy, but they showed the wear and age of an owner who had neither the wealth nor the youth to upgrade them.
The ghost of Jack Shepard tailed Penelope Thornton-McClure up the stairs and into those well-worn rooms. First stop: her son’s bedroom, a ten-by-ten space in need of repainting. The kid was still asleep on a small twin bed. Like the chest of drawers and nightstand, the white wood headboard displayed scratches and knicks, but the Curious George covers appeared clean and new. When Penelope kissed her son’s copper bangs, he stirred.
“Mom?”
“Morning, honey. How did you sleep?”
The boy sat up. Yawned. Frowned. “Bad dream,” he said.
“Again?” asked Penelope, sitting on the narrow bed. “Same kind?”
The kid nodded his head in the affirmative. Penelope hugged her son close and rocked him for a long minute.
Jack had been in Penelope’s head for a while now, so he knew all about the kid—and her unending worry.
Apparently the kid had gone through grief counseling at school just after his father killed himself. At first, Penelope’s instinct was to keep him close to her, but her in-laws pushed hard for her to “get him back to a normal routine.” So, just as school ended, Spencer was sent away on his usual two weeks of foreign-language camp. After only one night, the kid called home, terrorized by nightmares, begging his mother to come get him.
“There’s this rare genetic disease that I once read about in a novel, familial dysautonomia,” she’d told her Aunt Sadie early one morning over coffee. “One in something like four hundred thousand children are born with it—they cannot feel physical pain. This condition is quite dangerous because pain, when you think about, is actually useful, a valuable warning against hazards, illness, coming disease. No mother would want her child to suffer from not knowing he’d broken a bone or burned his finger. But when you see your child’s face, completely bewildered, at his father’s funeral; when you hear him crying at night that Daddy left, that he killed himself, and maybe you will, too—well, you can understand why I wished some rare genetic disease existed that prevented all forms of emotional pain.”
Jack watched Penelope’s fingers lightly stroke her son’s hair. “I’m not going anywhere, honey. I’m right here. With you,” she whispered. “And that’s where I’m going to stay. We’re in this together. You and me—and Aunt Sadie, too. And we’re going to make this new life work. You got that?”
The boy’s head, tucked tight to his mother’s shoulder, nodded.
Mee-uuuwww . . .
At the bottom of the kid’s bed, that little orange striped kitten they’d named “Bookmark” stirred and stretched and reached out its little orange paws. Jack didn’t much go in for cute. But he supposed the furry thing was okay. And it seemed to cheer up the kid, who reached out to pet the kitten’s head.
The kitten began to purr. Then it stopped, arched its back, hissed at the corner where Jack was hanging, and fled from the room.
Damn stool-pigeon cat.
Pen stared after the kitten in obvious puzzlement. “She’s probably hungry, don’t you think?”
The boy nodded quickly.
“And I bet you are, too, right?”
“I suppose.”
“Well, there’s shredded wheat and blueberries on the table and milk in the fridge,” said Penelope. “Pour some Kitten Chow for Bookmark, okay? I’ll be in to eat with you in a few minutes. And after you eat breakfast and wash up, I’d like you to get dressed and come down and hang out with me and Aunt Sadie in the bookstore today, okay? Take a break from the TV for a little while.”
“Aw, Mom, do I have to?” he said with another yawn.
“What do you think?” called Penelope as she left the room. The bath appeared to be the widow’s next stop, which didn’t discourage Jack’s surveillance in the least.
Ancient aquamarine tiles covered the walls and floors; several were cracked, but all were spotlessly clean. Homemade shelves of rough blond wood held thick towels. A chipped old sink stood on a pedestal beside a small toilet. And against the far wall sat a big claw-footed tub, around which hung a shower curtain with a marine life themed design.
Penelope kicked off her slingback shoes as soon as she stepped onto the tiled floor. He watched her reach behind the whales, dolphins, and their ilk to fiddle with the old porcelain handles. For a long minute, she stood there, letting the stream sluice between her fingers. “Too cold,” she thought with calm annoyance. And then, “Too hot.”
As she continued to let the water flow, Jack could hear its deep drumming as it beat against the tub. He could feel the steam building up in the bathroom air, see the fog forming on the mirror above the old chipped sink.
The small window of blue-and-green stained glass was wide open, and the warm September breeze blew in, its fragrance sweetened by roses on the town green. Pines from a nearby thicket offered a pungent streak, along with the slight tinge of marshy salt carried in from the ocean miles away.
The ghost of Jack Shepard recognized each of these scents. They were as distinct to him as the red, green, and yellow of the corner stoplight. Jack’s body may have been dead for more than fifty years, but his state of awareness was very much alive.
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, exper
iencing 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.
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