So the hood found a good cover? So what? That doesn’t explain the contradictions.
“What contradictions?”
You ought to try picking up a few pointers from some of the books you sell around here. Look, I know you noticed the guy was musclebound. His grip alone practically made you wince. You noticed the calluses, too. How many bookworms you know look like they can punch out a street cop?
“He could have been a fit bookworm,” Penelope said. “He did have glasses, which is common among people who make their living reading.”
Fake.
“Fake?”
The glass was clear. Not prescription. I’ll give you a pass on noticing that one, since you couldn’t get close enough. But I could. And did.
“But . . .”
Yeah?
“Those little round frames give a man a certain look,” I silently said. “He might be wearing them as a fashion statement.”
Doll, repeat after me: Men. Do not. Make fashion statements.
“Maybe they didn’t in your time. But they do now. Oh, why am I speaking to you as if you’re really the ghost of Jack Shepard?!! You’re just a voice. A stupid, silly voice in my head.”
And another thing—those set of pearly whites. Big, perfect ivories like that don’t happen in nature. God can’t even afford to give sets like that away. And, as far as I know, neither can a small magazine like the one your “Howie” claimed he worked for—
“He’s not my Howie—”
So tell me, doll, how many people in the book publishing game can afford that set of choppers? Not many, I’d wager. But it’s the sort of mouth job someone in a high-priced profession could afford. What does that tell you?
“Nothing. Just like you.”
You’re just stung ’cause nothing came of giving that chump the glad eye—
“Excuse me, but if you insist on speaking, would you mind speaking English?”
Don’t get your panties in a bunch, sister. I’m speaking English, all right. You gave Howie Westwood the glad eye. You were looking him over good, flirting with him, even fantasizing a few racy things if I’m not mistaken.
“I most certainly was not!”
Spin your yarns for Auntie, not me.
“What?!”
You’re not married anymore. So why be ashamed of admitting to a new attraction?
Penelope sighed. “I wasn’t attracted. Not really. I just wondered—”
Yeah, I get it. You wanted to know if you could still get a Joe hot in the zipper. Well, you certainly could have in my time, doll. You’re what we called whistle bait—and if I were alive, you and me, we’d be heating up your sheets in no time flat.
Penelope couldn’t believe a mere delusion was making her flush scarlet. “Must you be so vulgar?”
What is it about you fair-play Janes wanting prissy little packages? Everything’s got to be presented all neat and pretty and correct. But guess what, doll, life ain’t like that. People aren’t like that. They’re angry and jealous and ugly and weak—and full of primal feelings, as you well know.
“They’re not all that way. People can be good. And fair. And courageous and selfless. My mother was. My father was . . . for a while, before my mother died. And my aunt definitely is—and so are the good people of this town.”
Verdict’s out on your townie friends, sweetheart. But I’ll be watching.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” I said. Then I raised my chin, turned on my heel, and strode back toward the checkout counter. Thankfully, the Jack Shepard delusion of mine didn’t follow.
CHAPTER 11
Shadow Boxing
Midnight, I dare say. . . . That’s the word.
The time when the graves give up their dead, and ghosts walk.
—Dashiell Hammett, The Dain Curse, 1928
TWO HOURS LATER, at three minutes after nine, Sadie rang up the last of the day’s Shield of Justice purchases for a well-dressed, middle-aged couple who also had a taste for the Kellermans—Jonathan and Faye.
No longer capable of smiles, I wisely let Sadie answer their chatty questions and politely send them on their way. The moment they departed, I threw the lock, flipped the sign to read CLOSED, and fell against the door.
“Tired?” Aunt Sadie asked. As she began to empty the register and count the day’s receipts, I collapsed into a nearby chair and stared vacantly at the intentionally rustic charm of the exposed beams in our ceiling.
“Now, why would I be tired?” I replied. “Could it be that I was living through one of the most eventful days in my life with a horrendous hangover—the result of alcohol ingested at your urging, by the way? Or maybe it was the threat from Councilwoman Binder-Smith to shut us down? Or the State Police raid that pretty much capped our morning—and all this before we opened for business?”
Sadie clicked her tongue. “You’re babbling, dear. And, anyway, we can’t help it if a famous author drops dead in our store, now, can we?”
“What if Timothy Brennan didn’t just drop dead?” I asked, finally coming out with the question that had been nagging at me all day. “What if the autopsy suggests foul play? Lieutenant Marsh will want to pin the crime on someone.”
“What if pigs had wings?” said Aunt Sadie with a snort.
As I watched Sadie rubber-band thick wads of cash, my “babbling” continued. “If Brennan was the victim of foul play, then the suspect list would include those who had opportunity, access, and, of course, motive, which means we could be on the list.”
“How do you figure that?”
“For better or worse, Brennan’s death put Buy the Book on the map, didn’t it? I mean, look at all that cash—in one day’s take. We’re making money because Brennan died here. And I really didn’t want to admit this to you—or even to myself, frankly—but Lieutenant Marsh looked me up and down this morning like I was guilty.”
“Of what?”
“Anything. Anything he can make stick. I’m sure of it. And that’s what worries me. You and I both know the state won’t take over a local investigation unless they’re asked—and Councilwoman Marjorie Binder-Smith almost certainly insisted, no doubt with a tip-off to watch me for suspicious behavior.”
“Don’t be silly,” Aunt Sadie replied. “You’re just over-tired.” But this time her dismissal lacked conviction. I could see my words had made her begin to worry, too.
Aunt Sadie stuffed the day’s receipts into a threadbare canvas bag, which she’d used since she first took over the store from her father decades ago. She tied the bag with its frayed, gray string tucked it under her arm and headed for the stairs.
“I’m going to bed, sweetie,” Sadie called over her shoulder. “Don’t forget to turn out the lights before you come upstairs. See you in the morning.”
Despite my tired feet, I was wired. Worrying will do that to a person. I thought some surfing time on the Internet might help distract me, but first I had to close down the rest of the store.
I moved through the lighted aisles to a bank of electrical controls near the entrance to the community events space. Flicking switches, I shut down all but the recessed security lights in the ceiling.
The entire interior of Buy the Book was now dark, illuminated only by a dull glow that cast deep shadows between the tall bookshelves. Outside the high windows, the night-cloaked streets of Quindicott had gone quiet.
At the end of the block, the hanging stoplight at the crossroad swung in the nighttime breeze, blinking from green to yellow to red, signaling traffic that wasn’t there.
Even the formerly cheerful community events space seemed slightly menacing, its cavernous interior, where a corpse had lain just twenty-four hours ago, blanketed in darkness.
With a sudden shiver, I turned, intending to head back to the main store’s register area when I heard a strange, hollow, banging sound. The noise had come from somewhere inside the darkened community events room.
Trying not to panic, I listened intently. When the sound came again, louder this
time, I forced the rational part of my mind to identify the odd yet strangely familiar noise.
“Jack?” I whispered to my delusion. “Is that you? If you’re trying to scare me with some pretense of ghostly manifestation—well, it isn’t very funny.”
No reply. My Jack Shepard alter ego was missing in action.
Typical.
Where’s a psychotic delusion of a ghostly detective when you really need one?
Despite my better judgment, I carefully tiptoed into the darkened community events room in an effort to discover the source of the banging sound.
I tried not to think about my eerie dream the night before, the ghostly presence, the upside-down chairs, the construction workers’ weekly complaints of vanishing and reappearing tools.
Perhaps a squirrel—or even a raccoon—had somehow gotten in through the back door. It had happened before. After all, there were plenty of woods around the town, and the animals were known to root through garbage for food scraps.
That explanation sounded credible enough to make me bold, and within a few moments I had pretty much convinced myself that this was the case, which is why I kept the lights off. Turning them on again might scare the critter.
It was only after I had completely crossed the creepy emptiness of the community events room that I had second thoughts.
What if I were wrong, and it wasn’t some cute, furry squirrel making all that racket? What if it was a raving mad, rabid raccoon—with sharp claws and ripping teeth! Or worse, what if the noise was caused by an intruder? A burglar, or worse? And here I was, confronting him alone, without even a weapon.
By this time I spied a sliver of light shining out from under a lavatory door, which didn’t alarm me at first because the switches for those lights weren’t controlled by the master.
Then I heard the sound again. Hearing it in context, this time, I knew what it was. In fact, I heard it twice a week when I removed the aluminum covers from the paper towel dispensers to refill them.
Before I could puzzle out why a squirrel would jump four feet in the air to mess with a paper towel dispenser, the door to the women’s room burst open, blinding me with the explosive glare of fluorescent light.
I yelped, and someone grunted. The dark silhouette of a man appeared in the doorway. The figure lurched forward, and the door closed behind it. Once again the world was plunged into darkness—only now my night vision was a blurry mess of fluorescent afterglow.
A body crashed into me. Fingers gripped my shoulders and held on. With a scream, I tore free of the intruder’s grasp and ran across the darkened room.
“Wait!” a voice cried.
But I wasn’t stopping. Despite my impaired vision, I crossed the room in record time, arms outstretched like Frankenstein’s monster. Finally I stumbled over my own feet and smacked into the wall. Reaching out, my fingers closed on the light switches and I flipped every last one.
The room brightened, and with my vision restored, I turned to face the intruder. “Don’t you come near me or—”
Or what I didn’t know. Fortunately, it didn’t matter.
“Mrs. McClure! It’s me. Josh! Josh Bernstein from Salient House. Shelby Cabot’s assistant!”
“Josh?”
“I’m so embarrassed,” Josh Bernstein said. “I came to the store a little before closing time, just to say hello and see how things were going. But suddenly I felt a little sick . . .”
He rubbed his stomach as if to emphasize the problem.
“I went to the rest room, and I guess I was there a long time. I didn’t realize you had closed the store . . . I guess I’m lucky I wasn’t locked in all night!”
Needless to say, I felt like an idiot. I apologized for reacting so hysterically, and politely offered to make him some tea. He refused, saying he just wanted to return to Finch’s Inn and go to bed.
Privately relieved, I unlocked the door, and he departed.
My heart was still beating fast from the fright as Josh stopped to look at me through the window. When he saw me looking back, he offered a forced sort of half smile before vanishing into the night.
The Salient House publicity assistant seemed just as shaken up as I, and I wanted to dismiss it on face value.
But I couldn’t. “Because his story didn’t explain why he’d come out of the women’s room,” I murmured.
You said it, doll!
My Jack delusion was back. And I was pissed. “Where have you been?” I demanded. “I could have used some company a few minutes ago.”
I was here, baby! Watching the whole time.
“Well, that proves you’re not a real ghost. You can’t be. You didn’t even warn me Josh was in there, and you had to know I was heading his way.”
A gumshoe gets his facts from watching and keeping his mouth shut, not from crying wolf. Anyway, you were in no danger.
“What do you mean? He just used the women’s room mistakenly?”
He didn’t “use” it. He was looking for something.
“Looking for what? Tampax tampons?”
Jack laughed. Thought you didn’t like vulgarity.
“Just spill it!”
Now you’re talking my language, baby. Joshy was tearing the ladies’ can apart on a search. And he found what he was looking for, too—
“What?”
A syringe—hidden right inside the paper towel dispenser. He pocketed it and took off. Seemed to me, he couldn’t get out of here fast enough after he grabbed that needle.
“What was a syringe doing buried in the paper towel dispenser of our women’s room?!”
I don’t have all the answers yet, but I’ll give ya dollars to doughnuts it’s got something to do with murder.
“Brennan’s?”
Who else you know died in this joint—besides me?
“There could be a perfectly innocent reason why the syringe was hidden in there,” I argued.
You don’t say? How many hopheads you got in this burg?
“It could have been used for insulin. One of our customers could have been a diabetic.”
And the reason he or she shoved it deep inside the towel dispenser instead of into the garbage can?
“I don’t know, but—”
No buts. Josh knew what he’d come for. When he’d spotted that syringe, he got the thrills, all right. You’d think he found Veronica Lake naked in his bedroom.
“Please stop with the sexual analogies.”
Why, baby? Too much to handle? Am I giving YOU the thrills? That’s a nice thought.
“What did you say?”
You know what I said. And you know how you feel, hearing my voice in your head.
“Let’s stay on the subject at hand. If you’re really some all-knowing ghost of a private eye, then what happened to Brennan exactly? Was that syringe involved? And what was it doing in my store’s women’s room? Who put it there? And what does Josh want with it?”
Whoa. Put the brakes on, baby, I didn’t witness who gave Brennan the big chill because I happened to be tailing you that night. And I didn’t witness who hid the syringe for the same reason. And as for what Joshy boy wants with it, I can’t tail him beyond your front door, so I don’t know. I can read your thoughts, but in almost all other ways, my powers of observation are about on your level—with the exception that I can remain invisible, of course, and take in a lot more than you, like that tail I ran on Josh when he was searching the little girls’ can. But I can only be one place at a time.
“Forgive me if I remain skeptical.”
I don’t blame you. But I do need you to pay attention to what I’m telling you now. I have a theory—and a lead for you to follow—
“Oh, no you don’t. I’m not doing anything you direct me to until I get a handle on exactly what you are.”
Suit yourself, baby. When I was alive, I was one skeptic Joe myself. “Concrete Jack”—that’s what they used to call me. So if you wanna run your own version of a background check, who am I to complain? Go to
it, babe, you have my blessing.
With a dead author, a suspicious State Police investigator, and a hidden syringe in my store over the past twenty-four hours, I was now fairly sure I had a bona fide murder mystery on my hands. And the only one who seemed capable of helping me was a ghost.
Either that or a delusion.
Okay, so the whole “Jack Shepard” matter was a mystery in itself—one I knew I’d better resolve. And fast.
I myself knew next to nothing about ghosts, which meant I needed to consult with experts on the matter—and I needed to do it anonymously. That narrowed my investigative options down to one: the Internet.
CHAPTER 12
Dark and Stormy Night
One of the proofs of the immortality of the soul is that myriads have believed it—they also believed the world was flat.
—Mark Twain
Ghosts are not spirits of the dead. Ghosts don’t have innate intelligence. Ghosts are merely the hopes, fears, and emotions of the living, recorded on the psychic plane and replayed in an eternal, endless loop long after the person who inadvertently made that recording is dead.
Such was the hypothesis of Dr. Frederic Haxan, author and paranormal researcher, as typed in a message to me by a graduate student with the self-explanatory screen name SPOOKSCIENCEGUY.
For the past hour I had fruitlessly surfed the cyberwaves, using the keywords “ghosts” and “haunting.” After hopping from one search engine to another, and one crackpot Web site to another, I’d finally stumbled onto this site, sponsored by the Department of Parapsychology at Wendell University (wherever that was).
I entered their active chat room and met SPOOKSCIENCEGUY, KARDECIAN, DOYLEFAIRY, M. BLAVATSKY, and the rest of the “Ghostbusters.”
At last, I could talk freely about my problem. I mean, honestly, how could I tell anyone that I was having an ongoing conversation in my head with the voice of a dead private eye? They were sure to assume I was suffering some sort of post-traumatic stress from witnessing my late husband’s leap.
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