The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

by Alice Kimberly

  “I’m driving to Newport, right now. I’m going to stop all this for once and for all.”

  “How? Are you going to the Newport police?”

  “Not yet. You know and I know that neither Detective Kroll, Chief Ciders, nor Detective-Lieutenant Marsh will believe some tall-sounding tale about a hidden treasure map buried in a set of books—not unless I produce the treasure to prove it’s real. So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to find the oval portrait and take it to the police with my charges against Claymore. I’m sure once claymore realizes he can never have it, he’ll confess to his crimes.”

  “But you don’t even know what to look for!”

  “It’s an oval portrait, Brainert. How hard is that to find?”

  “There might be a dozen or more oval portraits. Wait until tomorrow or the next day, and I’ll probably be well enough to go with you. I’ll recognize the treasure at once. I’m certain of it.”

  “No. I have a better idea.”

  I showed Brainert the cell phone I’d just bought from Gerry Kovacks at Cellular Planet—one of the new stores on Cranberry.

  “Look,” I told Brainert. “This phone captures and stores digital images. I can snap pictures of the portraits in the manor, show them to you when I get back. The display screen is right here…”

  I could see the anticipation in my friend’s one good eye. But there was doubt, too. “There’s no one at the Chesley mansion, Pen. The doors are locked up tight. How will you get in?”

  Back door, Jack piped up. One thing I’ve learned in the gumshoe game, baby, you can always find a back door in.

  “Well,” I told Brainert as I headed out the door, “I’ve already been charged with grand larceny. Why not go for breaking and entering, too?”

  Jack laughed in my head. In for a penny, in for a pound, I always say.

  “No, you don’t.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Return to the Haunted House

  “I think I’d better go over there and see what’s broken.”

  —Philip Marlowe in “Finger Man,”

  by Raymond Chandler, 1934

  BY THE TIME I turned onto the twisting, turning, annoyingly treacherous Roderick Road, the sun was kissing the horizon. I couldn’t believe it, but the sky was looking ominous and heavy clouds seemed to be threatening rain—even though there’d been only the slightest chance of precipitation in the forecast.

  “All we need is a little lightning, thunder, and a big, flat headed guy with bolts in his neck,” I muttered with a shiver.

  What’s the matter, babe? Cold feet?

  “Cold nose. It’s chillier here by the ocean.”

  Don’t you wish I could warm it, honey?

  “I know what you’re doing, you know?”

  What?

  “You’re trying to make up for those comments about that nurse.”

  I’m a sucker for angels of mercy. Maybe someday I’ll tell you that story—

  “There’s the gate to the Chesley house,” I said, cutting Jack off. I slowed the Saturn but didn’t make the turn onto the driveway. There was no point.

  “Brainert was right about the place being locked up. The gate’s closed—”

  And padlocked.

  I rolled to a halt on the shoulder of the road about a hundred yards past the gate. I parked parallel to the stone wall surrounding the manor then cut the engine and lights. Silence and darkness descended like an eerie blanket. When I opened the door, a damp chill cut through my flimsy jacket. I popped the trunk and found my big Maglite. It was just like the one my dad used to carry on the job, the one that could easily double for a nightstick. The flashlight was heavy, and the weight felt comforting.

  Jack laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  That’s how I felt about my gat.

  “Your what?”

  My gun, baby. I carried a Browning .45, the same service weapon I’d used as an army officer. When I’d been a flatfoot before the war, I carried a .38. The .38 was lighter, easier to carry, but the Browning had real stopping power. Like you with your flashlight, the .45’s weight was a comfort.

  I moved across damp, unkempt grass to the seven-foot stone wall. As I’d hoped, it was crumbling from age and neglect. Better still, it was covered by thick, twisted ivy. Between the roots and the crumbling joints, there were plenty of places for me to grip. I shoved the flashlight into my belt and began to climb.

  Good play, baby. Not too many dames from my time would pull an Edmund Hillary—

  “Who?”

  Who? You don’t know the guy who climbed Everest?

  “Don’t get testy. I just forgot. This isn’t Jeopardy!, you know.”

  I disagree. You could very well be in jeopardy. You know that.

  “No! Not jeopardy with a small j…Oh, forget it,” I said, continuing to climb. “Anyway, women in your day were hampered by high heels, garter belts, stockings, and skirts. I’m wearing slacks and flat shoes—though now I wish I had my sneakers. And by the way, Jack, lots of ‘dames’ make the trip up Everest now.”

  I swung over the wall and clambered down the other side. I landed on the uneven ground and steadied myself. I had a few new scrapes and bruises, but nothing to fret about.

  I’m impressed, baby.

  “Thanks,” I said, proud as a peacock.

  But I’m wondering why you went to all the trouble.

  My proud expression dropped. I now saw what Jack meant. There was a hole in the shattered wall I could easily have walked through not twenty feet from the spot I’d climbed.

  “Now I feel stupid.”

  And the night is still young…

  Across an overgrown lawn, the manor house loomed massively. In the distance, I heard the waves crashing against the rocky shore. Through the twisted trees I could see the dull gleam of light in the gothic-style portico. But I didn’t head toward the entranceway. This time I was going in through the back door, just as soon as I found one.

  The rain that threatened during the drive up here now began to fall. I shivered as I followed a dark overgrown trail around the back of the estate.

  “Talk to me, Jack,” I begged. “I’m getting scared.”

  No, you’re not, honey. Just keep moving. Don’t lose your momentum and you won’t lose your nerve.

  Using my flashlight, I found a stone path and followed it up to the walls of the bleak, decaying mansion. I found a ground-floor door a moment later. It was made of wood with six small windows. I jiggled the knob. No surprise, it was locked.

  “Well, what now?” I asked.

  Are you talking to me?

  “Jack, I have to get in. Aren’t you going to show me how to pick the lock or something?”

  No.

  “You won’t help me get in?”

  Picking a lock is an art. You can’t master it in a few minutes.

  “So how do I get in?”

  Break the window and turn the knob from the other side.

  “Okay.” I raised the Maglite to smash the glass.

  Not like that! Jack cried. With finesse. And real quiet like.

  “How do you break a window quietly?”

  I heard Jack sigh. Strip off that jacket, he commanded.

  “What?”

  You heard me. Take the coat off and wrap it around the end of the flashlight. Then gently tap the window until it breaks. There’ll be some noise, but not much.

  “It’s kind of funny, isn’t it?”

  What’s funny?

  “I’m breaking into a spooky house with help from one.”

  Real cute, baby. You’re a laugh riot. Now get to work.

  I did as Jack instructed. The window broke on the third tap. The glass made what seemed like a lot of noise to me, but Jack thought I did fine. I reached through the broken window frame, fumbled for the knob. I turned it and the door opened.

  “This is working!”

  Don’t get cocky. This joint looks like there’s not even an echo inside, but if someon
e is home, you’re an intruder and if they’re armed they could drill you, all nice and legal like.

  That revelation sobered me in a hurry. I swung the door open and entered silently, careful not to kick around any glass. I found myself in a dark and silent kitchen and realized Peter Chesley’s makeshift bedroom was just next door. I played the flashlight around until I found the exit. A minute later I was in a hallway that I recognized.

  “The library is just ahead,” I said.

  I felt an eerie case of déjà vu as I entered Peter Chesley’s library. The space looked much the same as it had the night Peter died, only darker and scarier because the lights were out and the fireplace cold. The only sound I heard was the ticking of the Poe clock, hidden in the shadows.

  “I know we’re looking for an oval portrait. I better get to it,” I whispered.

  I moved cautiously through the gloomy library, using the flashlight’s powerful beam to penetrate the shadows. I brushed against a standing lamp, and it began to topple. I lunged to catch it with one hand before the lamp crashed to the floor. My body swept across a desktop in the process, scattering dozens of Peter Chesley’s meticulously kept logs. I steadied the lamp, then crouched to pick up the notebooks.

  In the flashlight’s beam, I caught a small rectangle of cobalt blue. The unique color stopped me cold, and I settled the light on the small card. I bent down and snatched it up. It was a business card, one I recognized before I even read the inscription in gold embossed letters:

  PROFESSOR NELSON SPINNER

  DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH

  ST. FRANCIS COLLEGE

  The card had fallen out of a notebook, which was larger than the others. When I opened it, several other business cards spilled out. One for a roofing company, another for a home-care outfit in Newport. I realized at once that this was an account ledger. Written in the same careful hand that cataloged the contents of the library were the monthly expenses paid by Peter Chesley. The electric bill, gas, food, water, nursing care, doctor’s visits—it was all there, and up to date practically to the day he died.

  I found a column outlining payments to one Nelson Spinner, for “archive consultation.” It took only a moment to discover that Peter Chesley had written Nelson over a dozen checks—one every two weeks for the past six or seven months.

  The latest entry was dated the Friday before Peter Chesley died. Apparently, Nelson had been dealing with Peter Chesley up until just two days before the man perished.

  The information in this ledger book was astounding. The night Nelson Spinner had come to Buy the Book, he acted as though he’d never before seen the Phelps volumes of Poe. He picked them up and examined them and went out of his way to dissuade us from believing there was any credence to a Poe Code.

  “Why would Nelson pretend that he’d never seen Peter’s books before?” I whispered. “What was he trying to hide?”

  I think we both suspect what he was dodging, Jack said.

  “You mean you think Nelson’s the killer now? But what about Claymore Chesley?”

  I didn’t say your sweetheart Spinner clipped anyone. I’m only saying his debunking of the code was a dog and pony show. I’ll bet dollars to donuts Spinner had his peepers on the dingus—

  “Huh?”

  —the treasure. Spinner’s been eyeing the goods from the start. In fact, Golden Boy might have cozied up to Grandpa Chesley just to get close to the goods, figuring he’d put the squeeze on the geezer once he found the swag.

  “Do you think Spinner might have found the treasure already?”

  Nix, doll. He would have lammed it from old Chesley if he had. Why come back to this mausoleum if you don’t have to?

  “Speaking of the treasure, let’s find it now and make like shepards, okay?”

  Baby, I love it when you speak my language.

  I remembered the wall of old portraits and photographs near the weird Poe clock. I ran the flashlight across the shelves of books until I located the pictures. There were over a dozen, all in frames, several oval-shaped. A closer examination revealed brass nameplates on each frame—all of the images were of the Chesley family, dating back to the Civil War and earlier.

  “Dead end,” I muttered.

  Keep looking, cupcake. There are a lot of mug shots on these old walls.

  I played the beam around the four walls, but all I found were books, thousands of them, lined up in neat rows on heavy wooden shelves. I was about to give up when the light played across something round—a large, freestanding terrestrial globe on a thick, Victorian-era wooden base. Only a portion of the globe was visible, the bulk of it tucked into a curved niche sunk into the wall between two tall shelves.

  As I approached the globe, I saw a gleaming brass plaque at its base. In the flashlight’s glare, I read the inscription: MADE BY NEW YORK–BASED GLOBE MAKER HERMAN SCHEDLER, CIRCA 1889. PROPERTY OF MYSTIC HOUSE.

  “Mystic House, Jack! This globe belonged to Eugene Phelps, the man who hid the treasure.” I played the flash light along the curved wall behind the globe. There were four portraits hanging there, all of them in oval frames.

  “Eureka!” I cried, laughing at my own unintentional Poe reference.

  Close your head, doll. You’re sleuthing, remember?

  I should have listened to Jack, but in the excitement of discovery, I did kind of lose my head. I found the nearest lamp and turned it on. Light filled this small corner of the massive library.

  Are you smoking the mud-pipe, toots? Put a sock over it!

  “I need light to take these pictures. I have no choice. I’m sure there’s no one here, Jack.”

  Your call. But me? I’m twitchy. This setup doesn’t feel right.

  I adjusted the lamp and removed the shade so that the bare bulb illuminated the entire niche. In order to get closer to the portraits, I pushed a thick-backed chair next to the globe and stood on it. Bending over the globe, I began to take pictures.

  Two of the portraits were amateurish renderings of Poe, one in oil, the other pen and ink. They were signed EP—Eugene Phelps, I presumed—and if the artist thought these were “treasures,” he surely misjudged his own skills. Below those were two images of Poe hung side by side—I recognized the high, domed forehead, the pale flesh, nearly identical. Both pictures were set in thick, heavy frames.

  Poe seemed to be wearing the same clothes in both pictures, though in one he appeared disheveled, distracted.

  I captured multiple images of each portrait, checking occasionally to make sure the digital reproduction was clear. When I was finished, I tucked the phone into my pocket. I was about to step off the chair when I was interrupted.

  “Who are you and why are you in this house?” a raspy voice demanded. “You have no business being here.”

  With a startled yelp, I tumbled off the chair—and landed hard.

  Flat on my back, I looked up to find a sinewy young man looming over me. He had curly dark blond hair and wide blue-green eyes. He wore jeans and a sweatshirt and his right hand clutched a long iron poker with a hooked tip.

  Didn’t I warn you to keep your peepers wide and your ears unplugged?

  I scrambled to my feet. “What are you doing here?” I fired back with false bravado. “The owner of this house is dead!”

  The man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “My father died this week, it’s true,” he replied, his voice hoarse.

  “You’re Peter Chesley’s son?”

  “I’m Raymond Chesley…. Who are you?”

  “Listen, I know this looks bad,” I began, my words tripping over themselves. “But I can explain. My name is Penelope Thornton-McClure. I co-own a bookstore in Quindicott, and I met your father just the other night, the night he died. In fact, I was the one who found him—uh, his corpse. My aunt Sadie and I, that is. You see, it was really my aunt who—”

  “Be quiet.”

  My mouth snapped shut.

  “I don’t care a whit about my father,” Raymond Chesley said. “I lived most of my life in Bost
on, with my mother and stepfather. My father and I were estranged, so I don’t want to hear your explanations. You have to leave now.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  I refused to budge. Instead, I began to tell Raymond about the Phelps Poes, the Poe Code, and the treasure hidden somewhere in this library. His reaction shocked me. He laughed, right in my face! A laugh that quickly broke into a cough. He drew a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his nose.

  “A treasure? You sound as insane as this despicable family—like all the Chesleys. My late mother was right to get away from them as soon as I was born.”

  “Listen, Raymond. We’ve sold two of the Phelps books. We will sell the rest. That means we owe the estate—you—some money. Thousands of dollars—”

  “Keep it,” he said, waving his hand. “He gave them to you, and I don’t care. I’m selling everything you see as soon as possible, and giving it all to charity. An antique dealer is coming here to assess this junk and haul it away.”

  “What! When?”

  “Tomorrow. The only reason I’m even staying in this rattrap tonight is because the man was supposed to come this afternoon and postponed at the last minute.”

  “But the treasure—”

  “Go, Mrs. McClure. It’s time for you to leave, before I call the police and have you arrested.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” I muttered. “Not again.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Dream in a Ditch

  Maybe I did have a taste for death. Maybe I liked it too much to taste anything else.

  —Mike Hammer in One Lonely Night,

  by Mickey Spillane, 1951

  “DAMN THOSE WEATHERMEN! Slight chance of rain, my rear!”

  The precipitation had been light when I left Prospero House, a pacific patter on the roof. I’d slid behind the wheel of my Saturn, started the engine, and once again negotiated the twisting turns of Roderick Road.

  By the time I reached the highway, however, the skies opened up. Sheets of rain transformed my windshield into a mini Niagra. The road was awash in water, and I half expected to see men with beards and yellow slickers trolling for cod.