Sadie blushed. “You wanted the book much more than Dr. Mellors, Peter. Money isn’t everything.”
“Exactly. Which is why this argument is over.”
Chesley swung his wheelchair around and rolled across the faded Oriental rug. The wheels wobbled and squeaked. Sadie and I rose and followed the man to the goodies table. I felt like a child on Christmas morning, staring at a stack of ribbons and bows wrapped around boxes of possibilities.
But as I stood up, I could swear I heard the sound of footsteps over my head—heavy footfalls, too, as if someone were walking the corridor upstairs. I glanced at Sadie, but she seemed to have missed the sound. Telling myself I’d been mistaken, I followed the pair to the table.
Peter gestured to a large folio tied with silk ribbon.
“As you see, I have an edition of American birds by naturalist John James Audubon. I believe they were published in 1838.”
I held my breath. The Audubon folios I’d seen before this were relegated to library collections or museums.
Sadie lifted a thick volume with rough-cut pages and a scuffed brown cover. “This is incredible. Is this a Caritat’s edition of Wieland?”
Chesley nodded. “Published in 1798, I believe. The only edition that appeared in Charles Brockden Brown’s lifetime. Alas, this copy is not signed….”
Peter Chesley’s hand rested on an odd, seemingly mismatched set of books. “Considering the theme of your newly renovated bookstore, I think you may find these volumes of particular interest.”
“The Poes?” Sadie observed.
“A complete set of the Eugene Phelps editions of Edgar Allan Poe’s tales and poems. Thirteen volumes edited and published between 1929 and 1931. I understand some of these books are quite rare, though most volumes garner only modest sums from collectors.”
“Why is that?” I asked our host, but it was Sadie who provided the answer.
“The Phelps books were published by a rich New England eccentric on the cusp of the Great Depression,” she explained. “Only the last four volumes in the set are truly valuable because they had a much smaller print run, and because they did not sell when they were first published—”
“Don’t forget the most fascinating part of the story.” Chesley fixed his eyes on mine and lowered his voice. “Your aunt failed to mention that over half the print run was lost when Eugene Phelps committed suicide in 1932. It seems the poor man lost his fortune on the stock market.”
“That’s tragic,” I replied.
To my surprise, Peter Chesley threw back his head and emitted a deranged-sounding cackle.
“Dwelling on the florid, morose writings of a Gothicist like Edgar Poe, poor Phelps was probably insane. Mad as a hatter!” he crowed. “Most bluebloods are, you know. Completely useless, the lot of them.”
I left Peter’s remark hanging. Jack was not so diplomatic.
That’s the first smart thing that dribbled through grandpa’s dentures all night.
“The Phelps books will surely sell,” Sadie said, changing the subject. “But to get the best price I may have to break up the set. It’s a shame but—”
Chesley silenced my aunt with a raised hand. “Do what you have to. That doesn’t trouble me in the least. I inherited these books when I inherited Prospero House. To be perfectly frank, I have about as much interest in Poe as I do in this nautical claptrap you see around the mansion—which is to say, not much.” Chesley scowled. “Yachting was my father’s obsession. Poe my grandfather’s. Which explains the grotesque motif of that clock in the corner.”
I’d hardly paid attention to the grandfather clock. It stood in the shadows next to that cluster of old daguerreo types mounted in square and oval frames that I’d assumed were Chesley ancestors when I’d first entered the library.
Now I walked across the room to survey the antique. At over six feet tall, the heavy, dark wood case towered over me, its face flanked by a black cat and a stately raven, also carved in dark wood. The pendulum behind the glass was shaped like a swinging axe blade.
Cheery, ain’t it?
“The images are from Poe’s poetry and tales,” I silently informed Jack. I hadn’t read Poe since my adolescence, but I recognized some of the carvings in the clock’s case—a heart, a dagger, a beautiful woman wrapped in a shroud, and a primate of some sort. I puzzled over the simian for a minute, until I remembered the identity of the killer in “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” And, of course, I understood the meaning of Prospero House now. It wasn’t a reference to the magician and banished duke in Shakespeare’s Tempest, but the prince in Poe’s “The Masque of the Red Death.”
Chesley spoke up. “That clock belonged to my grandfather. I imagine he had it specially made.” He snorted. “Waste of good money.”
Sadie cleared her throat. “Well, I shall certainly do my best to move this consignment of books in as short a time as possible,”
“Take as long as you like to sell them. And if my illness should overtake me, please consider them yours. Willed to you. A gift.”
As Sadie opened her mouth to protest, a thunderous crash interrupted her, only this crash wasn’t thunder. The noise came from over our heads, a loud bang followed by a lot of little bouncing sounds, like the sound of a heavy metal vase full of pebbles crashing to the floor.
Sadie let out a small scream of surprise.
Peter Chesley glanced up at the ceiling.
“What was that?!” I cried, quickly crossing the room to join them.
Brain it out, doll, Jack warned. Sounds like there’s more than one fruitcake in this nut house.
CHAPTER 3
Turnaround
Listening for noises was no good. The storm was making hundreds of them.
—Dashiell Hammett, “The Gutting of Couffignal,” 1925
“THAT CRASH CAME from upstairs!”
I moved toward the door. But before I took three steps, Peter Chesley rolled his chair directly into my path. His eyes were wide, and in the library’s flickering firelight I swear I saw fear in them.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. McClure. Such sounds are common. The house is in poor condition. Tonight’s rain and the wind have not helped the situation. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt…”
“But—”
“Please. It’s nothing to be alarmed about,” Peter declared. “Merely the walls settling…”
Pops is laying track, baby. He’s taking you for a rube.
“I know, Jack,” I silently replied. “I thought I heard a footstep before. What do I do?”
Don’t bunch your panties up, Jack cautioned. We’re probably talking a clumsy butler here. If gramps wants to pretend we’re alone, play along with his carny act, let him think we’re all conned and make like the shepherd—
“Make like you, Jack?”
Make like the proverbial shepherd, sweetheart, and get the flock out.
The grandfather clock struck nine. Peter Chesley’s shoulders slumped, and his head hung low on his waddled neck. “I’m terribly sorry, but I feel suddenly tired,” he moaned. “It is quite late…”
“Of course, Peter. We understand,” my aunt replied. “Penelope and I should get back on the road, too. I can send someone over in our van tomorrow and pick up these books.”
“No!” Peter cried, strangely reanimated. “I insist you take them now. Tonight. I have boxes right over there, in the corner. I’ll help you pack them up.”
“But, Mr. Chesley, what about the paperwork?” I reminded him. “Both parties should agree on the terms of a consignment contract, and—”
“Young woman, I’ve known your aunt for three decades. I can certainly trust you both to send the paperwork along at a later date. Whatever you decide is fine with me.”
Ten minutes later, I was carrying a box of books out to the car while Peter helped my aunt pack up the rest of the consignment. When I came back inside, I paused at the base of the staircase, listening.
The house was alive with sounds—wind whistlin
g through corridors, the spatter of rain on the slate roof, the rustle of the trees outside, the constant thumping of water hitting the steel pan. But I could hear no more footsteps upstairs, no human sounds up there at all. I resisted the temptation to call “Hello?” and continued on to the library to carry out the next box of books.
After the trunk was loaded up, Peter Chesley escorted us from the library to the front door. I offered to push him in his wheelchair, but, in yet another gesture of chivalry, he insisted on using his cane and seeing us out under his own power.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, my dear,” he told me sweetly and shook my hand. His grip was weak and bony, but his smile was genuine.
“I’ll send you a consignment contract by Express Mail first thing in the morning, Mr. Chesley,” I assured him. “You should have it Tuesday, before noon.”
I thanked the elderly man and discreetly moved to the car to allow Sadie a few minutes alone to say goodbye to her old friend. At the end of the adieu, I noticed Peter forcing his arthritic form to bow so he could kiss my aunt’s hand.
When she finally settled into the passenger seat, I could see Sadie biting back tears. We drove away in silence. In my rearview mirror, the manor became a dark silhouette against a rolling purple sky. Roderick Road was still free of traffic, but now the rain had all but ceased. A steady wind gusting at around forty miles per hour was blow drying the landscape.
“Oh, my, that was hard,” Sadie said at last. “Seeing how much Peter aged during our years apart…and he’s been so isolated, holing himself up in that dreadful place.”
“He does live a strange existence,” I said, struggling to be diplomatic. “But he spoke of finding himself the patriarch of the family, and his responsibilities to that family. That means there are relatives out there, too. And he did mention it was the butler’s night off.”
“I think Peter made up that story about the butler,” Sadie replied. “What butler would let his employer live in such conditions? If he’s lucky, Peter has a home-care nurse who checks on him weekly.”
I heard Sadie sniff, saw her brush her glove across her damp cheek. “Well, now that I know he needs me…that he didn’t simply remarry some other woman and run off, I’m going to come visit him every weekend. I’m going to find out what’s really going on in that man’s life whether he likes it or not!”
I smiled, happy to hear the fight in my aunt’s voice. If anyone could lift the eccentric Peter Chesley out of his gloomy, mildewed hole of an existence, it was Sadie Thornton.
“I have tissue,” I offered, seeing her tears continue to flow. “In my purse in the back—Oh, no!”
“What?”
Now I knew why I hadn’t heard any wisecracks from Jack since we’d left the mansion. “I was so busy loading the trunk with boxes of books that I left my purse in Mr. Chesley’s library. My driver’s license and credit cards are in there, everything I need…” (Including my connection with Jack!)
“We have to go back,” Sadie declared. “Turn around.”
We’d been driving for ten minutes already, but I slowed the car to a crawl, looking for a place to make a U-turn. Before long, we were rolling through the iron gates of Prospero House once again.
“I do hope Peter hasn’t retired already,” Sadie fretted.
I glanced at my watch. “We’ve only been gone about twenty minutes. I’ll bet he’s still awake.”
“Let me go inside. I can be in and out in a moment.”
I gladly agreed. Chesley’s Mildewed Manor gave me the proverbial creeps, and I wasn’t keen on an encore appearance. As we rolled under the stone portico, however, I noticed that both massive front doors were wide open, the wind rippling the hanging curtains in the entranceway.
Sadie stiffened. “Something’s wrong.”
I stopped, cut the engine, and thrust the keys into Sadie’s gloved hand. “Wait here.”
“What? No, Pen, wait for me—”
I was much faster than my aunt, and out of the car and up the three stone steps before she’d gotten out of the passenger seat.
“Mr. Chesley?” I called. “Can you hear me? Are you okay?”
The howling wind was my only reply.
I peered through the door and saw the motionless form on the hard stone floor. A hinge squeaked as the wind moved the door. I glanced at the locks, the doorknobs. There was no sign of forced entry.
Behind me, I heard the car door slam, and seconds later my aunt was at my side. When she saw the man on the ground, she choked back a scream, took a step forward. I grabbed her arm, stopped her.
“Just in case we’re not alone, we go in together.”
I was more convinced than ever that I’d heard another person in the house earlier in the evening. Now I wondered whether that person was dangerous.
Sadie understood my concern. Face pale, she nodded.
Arm in arm, we stepped over the threshold. Cautiously, we scanned the room, searching for any sign of activity. The house seemed deserted, except for the man on the floor. We hurried to Peter’s side.
“Watch my back,” I whispered.
I bent over the man. He lay facedown at the bottom of the stairs, one bare foot resting on the bottom step, his velvet slipper missing. I felt his flesh for signs of life, but he was already cold. Even before I searched for a pulse, I suspected there was no life left in his frail, broken form.
When I put my hand on his throat, I discovered an unnatural lump—as if he’d broken his neck—then drew my hand back so quickly I lost my balance and fell on my behind. Sitting on the ground, I glanced around, spied the bamboo wheelchair parked in the corner of the room, far from the stairs.
There didn’t appear to be any marks on Chesley, nor signs of violence beyond the broken neck. I scanned the stairs, saw his missing slipper in the middle of the staircase near the second floor.
My aunt looked away. She was distraught, sobbing. There was nothing she could do for the living Peter Chesley, not anymore, but we couldn’t just leave his corpse here.
“We have to call 911,” I said.
Sadie, still in shock, offered me a blank stare. “I…I don’t know where Peter keeps his phone,” she said.
“Stay here. Don’t touch anything!”
My tone was brusque, almost harsh, but I needed to get through to Sadie, who was clearly shaken by her friend’s sudden demise.
I strode quickly back to the library. My purse was where I’d left it—dangling by its strap from the arm of the chair. I needed the cell phone inside to call the police. But as soon as my fingers touched the purse, a familiar voice filled my head.
Miss me, baby?
“Jack, something terrible has happened—”
As I filled Jack in, I reached for the old buffalo nickel he once owned. I rubbed the coin between my fingers, like some stupid, scared kid looking for a genie in a bottle.
Call the cops, honey, but look around first, Jack advised.
“Huh?”
Wake up, doll. You and auntie were the last to see this rube alive. If he’s been rubbed out, you’re both in the hot seat—prime suspects.
“Jack! My God. What do you want me to look for?” I cried—out loud, as it turned out.
Can the chatter, Tinkerbell. If a square john with a badge hears you yammering, he’ll get the idea you’re bats.
“Sorry. I just got excited.”
As I fumbled for my cell phone, a frantic cry interrupted the conversation in my head.
“Pen! Pen!” Sadie shouted. “Come here!”
Well, lamb chop, if it’s at all possible, sounds like things just got a little more exciting.
CHAPTER 4
Ratiocination
While the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often remarkably incapable of analysis.
—Edgar Allan Poe, “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” 1841
WHEN I RETURNED to the entranceway, rippling red lights were flickering along the wall. The glow came through the still-gaping d
ouble doors. A shiny white police car had pulled up to the manor house, emergency lights flashing.
“I’m sorry if I frightened you, Pen,” Sadie said. “I saw the lights outside and didn’t realize that it was the police. They certainly arrived quickly after you called them.”
The cell phone was in my hand, but I hadn’t yet pushed the buttons. “I didn’t call them.”
Two officers stepped out of the squad car, approached the open door. A second vehicle rolled up beside the first. Now four policemen were staring at my aunt and the twisted corpse on the floor.
Sadie hurried forward to meet them. “Thank goodness you’ve come. Something terrible has happened. My friend, I think he’s dead!”
Sadie’s hands were shaking, and she was tearful. I wanted to corral my aunt, calm her, but a voice in my head stopped me.
Use your noodle, baby. There’s a stiff on the floor. A little opera on your aunt’s part will help convince the cops that you’re as innocent as a pair of Easter chicks.
“But we are innocent,” I silently protested. “We certainly didn’t do anything wrong.”
Step back and look at the fishbowl you’re swimming in, doll. The cops net you at the scene of a suspicious death, practically standing over the coffin stuffer. And you didn’t even tip the law to the rub-out.
“But I was just about to call the police—”
Someone beat you to it. Possibly even the perp.
That got my attention.
I suddenly remembered the sounds I’d heard earlier on the second floor. Had a killer struck Peter Chesley down after we had left, never guessing we’d return so soon?
“You think Chesley was murdered,” I silently said to Jack. “Did you witness anything while I was gone?”
Get a grip, honey. Outside of that fieldstone tomb of mine you call a bookshop, I’ve got no awareness unless you’re around. But we’re both on the same frequency. The old-timer couldn’t walk, and he didn’t fly up those stairs. Did you see an elevator?
The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library Page 4
