The Ghost and Mrs. McClure (10 page)

I handed the purchases to Linda, opening the
Shield of Justice
cover, and pointed.

“Oh, I see!” said Linda as she pressed the stamper down. The ink branded the inside front cover with a simple seal: an open book surrounded by a magnifying glass and the words propErtY OF BUY THE BOOK. “Oooo! Nice touch,” she said.

“Spence was the one who thought of it,” I said, ringing up the next customer. “When we first opened today, this nice, soft-spoken gentleman asked for a book plate from the store—he wanted some way to mark the book as having been purchased here. And Spence remembered how we rubber-stamp our incoming cartons—so he stamped the man’s book personally.

“You know, the man even called him ‘Spenser for Hire,’ and now Spence thinks he’s named after a Robert B. Parker private detective. It made him happy, so I didn’t remind him that he’s actually named after a McClure.”

“Pen!” called Sadie not ten minutes later. “There’s some people to see you.”

I looked up to find two familiar faces approaching the counter.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. McClure,” said Timothy Brennan’s daughter, Deirdre Brennan-Franken.

She doesn’t look good.
That was my first impression, and it had nothing to do with fashion. In fact, her emerald suit with matching scarf was as impeccably tailored as the burgundy outfit she’d worn the night before. But today her cheeks were sunken, her red hair unwashed, her eyes bloodshot. She looked as though she’d been crying all night.

Beside her, Kenneth Franken stood, wearing that same beautiful camel-hair jacket, a fresh white shirt, open-collared, and pressed brown slacks.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” said Deirdre, “with your store so busy and everything, but . . .”

I immediately lifted up the counter, and Sadie took my place at the register. Then I ushered Deirdre and Kenneth away from the crowded main store and into the quieter community events space. After I set up a few folding chairs, we all sat.

“I wanted to come by sooner,” said Deirdre, “but we had a lot to take care of, speaking to family members, my father’s lawyer, and the state investigators had so many questions.” She glanced at her husband, who looked especially uncomfortable with the mention of the police.

“I’m so sorry about what happened, Mrs. Franken. The way he died, right in front of you. It’s quite a shock, something like that, I know from personal experience. You should really be taking it easy—give yourself time to grieve. . . .”

Suddenly Deirdre burst into tears, putting her head in her hands. I looked at Kenneth, who frowned and quickly pulled out a handkerchief for her. He didn’t need it, I noted; his eyes were as dry as petrified bone.

“That’s the trouble, Mrs. McClure,” she said as she wiped her eyes. “A part of me is actually
glad
he’s dead.”

“You shouldn’t say that,” I told her. And yet a secret part of me understood completely. Not so much because of Timothy Brennan, but Calvin McClure.

“I know, I know,” said Deidre. “It’s terrible. But it’s how I feel. He was a contemptible man. Thoroughly selfish and so very cruel—a bully really, especially to Ken—”

“You still shouldn’t say it,” I warned. “I mean, I know it’s how you feel, and I know that’s the truth of death—that it can stir up many things, as much resentment and rage as anything else, but the reason you shouldn’t say it is because the State Police are investigating his death. And you don’t want to give them the wrong idea. Especially if you’re inheriting anything.”

“I’m inheriting everything,” said Deirdre. “It
all
comes to me. Even his third wife isn’t getting a penny—because he’d already grown tired of her and was planning a divorce.”

“Then you really should keep your feelings private,” I said.

“Oh, that’s what Ken told me, too, but the cat’s out of the bag. I blurted out exactly how I felt to that State Police lieutenant this morning. Marsh’s investigation is a waste of time, anyway.” She waved her hand as if it were behind her already. “The autopsy results will clear all that up. My father had a weak heart. It’s obvious that’s why he died.”

“Well, I really wouldn’t give any more statements,” I said. “Your lawyer should be the one to do that.”

“That’s what I told her,” said Ken Franken.

“That’s right, but I’m quite able to speak for myself. That’s partly why I came back to see you. I wanted to have a press conference here when the autopsy results come in,” said Deirdre. “Would that be all right?”

“Of course,” I said.

“And . . . this is really trivial, but earlier today I couldn’t find my makeup bag, and I can only think that I must have left it in the ladies’ room here last night. I’m so scatterbrained sometimes before my father speaks that I tend to do that sort of thing. Anyway, I did check back there, but it’s gone. Your aunt intercepted me. She said she didn’t know anything about it, but she suggested I speak to you. Did you find it? It’s a small red zipper bag, monogrammed with my initials.”

I shifted uneasily. “Mrs. Franken, if you left your makeup bag in our rest room, I’m afraid the State Police forensic team has it now.”

“What?” Kenneth Franken rose in outrage, his tall frame towering over both Deirdre and me.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but they were here this morning, bagging and tagging the leftover food and drinks and anything else suspicious they could find.”

“How could you let them?!” cried Ken.

I stood up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Franken, but they didn’t
ask
. They had a warrant.”

“Ken, please,” said Deirdre, jumping between us. “Don’t take it out on poor Mrs. McClure.”

“I’m going to look myself,” said Ken, fuming.

“Dear, it’s the
ladies
’ room,” said Deidre.

“So I’ll knock first,” he said. “Excuse me.”

Kenneth strode away, none too happy, and Deirdre turned to me. “I’m so sorry about that, Mrs. McClure. Ken and I . . . we’ve had our marital troubles, you know? And I think Ken has been overprotective of me in hopes of showing me . . . showing me he wants to make things up. I hope you understand.”

“Of course,” I said. “Please don’t worry about anything. I’m sure it will all work out just fine. And in the meantime, why don’t you stop by Colleen’s Beauty Shop? She has a line of cosmetics that I’m sure will hold you over until you can get your own things back.”

“It’s a shame,” said Deirdre.

“About your father?”

“About my makeup bag. I had some imported skin treatments in there. Quite expensive.” Deirdre sighed and shook her head. “Oh, well.” Then she looked up and around the room—the same room where her father had expired less than twenty-four hours before.

Finally her eyes met mine. “I cried all night, Mrs. McClure. So don’t think I’m not sorry to lose him. He may have been a bastard . . . but he was my father.”

“I understand. More than you know, Mrs. Franken. And if there’s anything more I can do . . .”

She shook her head, and when Kenneth Franken returned, they departed, empty-handed.

“You goofed, Fletcher. You goofed big.”

“What did I do?”

“You quoted somebody who’s been dead for two years . . .”

“Who says he’s dead?”

—Managing Editor Frank Jaffee, trying to fire reporter Irwin Fletcher in
Fletch and the Widow Bradley
by Gregory Mcdonald, 1981

 

 

 

BY SUNSET, THE crowd had thinned and the streets of Old Q were quieting down. There were about twenty people left browsing—more than Sadie used to get in an entire week before we’d renovated—but by today’s yardstick, the store was practically deserted.

After we polished off a Franzetti’s cheese pizza on our feet, I sent Spence upstairs with a
children’s
mystery under his arm, thank goodness. He’d wanted to read a “Spenser for Hire” story, but I showed him that Mr. Parker’s books were a little too long and too complicated for a boy his age to read (not to mention too violent and risqué).

I slyly suggested he start his mystery reading with a book that would help him improve his reading ability, so he could one day read all about his namesake: Spenser for Hire. That did the trick. He picked out Louis Sachar’s Newbery-winning
Holes,
and announced he was going to read every book in the children’s section by next summer. Then he was off.

“Someone’s checking you out,” Linda whispered to me as she helped me ring up one of the last few customers.

“Who?” I asked. “The guy over there?” I cocked my head in the general direction of a balding man in his forties wearing khakis and a green sweater. He was lurking in the used-book section, a Buy the Book bag tucked under his arm.

“That’s a collector,” Sadie interjected. “Along with the Brennan book he bought a copy of Colin Wilson’s
Ritual in the Dark
from the resale section. Recognized a bargain when he saw one—an out-of-print first edition with dust jacket, in not too shabby condition.”

Linda blinked as if Sadie were speaking in tongues. “
Ritual in the Dark
? Never heard of that one,” she said.

“It’s a British thriller set in the 1960s, but based on the murders of Jack the Ripper,” said Sadie. “And considering his taste in reading, I’d say date the guy with caution.”

“Thank goodness I wasn’t talking about
him
then,” Linda said. “I meant
that
one!”

Linda nodded in a direction vaguely to the left of the green-sweater guy. I shifted my gaze and ran smack into the eyes of a handsomeish man in his midthirties with large, perfect teeth; slicked-back, dark brown hair; and round Harry Potter-esque glasses.

I don’t know why, but the idea that he might be a car salesman came to mind. That or an actor. Must have been the teeth.

To my surprise, the man’s smile grew when our eyes met. Suddenly he was crossing the store, making a beeline toward me.

“What do you think he wants?” I whispered, acutely aware I was still rather hung over. Last time I’d glanced in the restroom mirror, I’d had red eyes, drawn skin, and smeared lipstick.

“He’s sort of cute,” Linda said in the perky
go-get-him
tone I hadn’t heard her use on me since junior high. “Nice threads, too.”

Before I could answer Linda, the man’s creased khakis, snow-white button-down, and tailored navy jacket were heading right for me. The toothy smile came at me with such dazzling brilliance I briefly considered installing him permanently in our dimly lit back room.

“Hi, there. I’m a senior editor with
Independent Bookseller
magazine. I was in the area, and I thought I might take a few notes for a story about your charming store.”

I stepped around the counter and stood toe to toe with the man. He was only about two inches taller than I, which wasn’t very tall for a man since I’m a shoeless five-four, but he was more than passing fit. The jacket did little to disguise the fact that he was plenty musclebound, with very broad shoulders and a thick neck and arms.

“Howie Westwood,” he said brightly, holding out his hand.

Wow, I thought. The guy’s energy level almost spiked my own wattage shortage. “Hello,” I managed as I reached to shake. “I’m Penelope Thornton-McClure.”

He took my hand in his and looked into my eyes. “Pleased to meet you, Penelope. Oh, excuse me.
May
I call you Penelope?”

“Yes, of course.” He was still holding my hand. I eased my grip, but he held on. The guy was strong. Somewhere amid my responding hormones, I registered the fact that his palms felt callused. A yachtsman? I wondered.

“You must be the owner—” he began.

“Co-owner,” I cut in, correcting him. “My aunt is the original owner. Sadie Thornton.” I gestured toward her with my free hand and he lifted his chin at her—a little too dismissively, I thought. And didn’t appreciate. I tugged my hand back.

“This is truly a unique space,” Howie said with easy admiration. “Quite an achievement. You must have considerable retail experience.”

“Thank you,” I said. And that’s all I said. The guy was attractive; Linda was right about that. But that was no reason to instantly trust him.

“You wouldn’t think a town as small as Quindicott could support a store of this size.”

A fair question, and an observant one, I decided. Okay, maybe the guy was good at what he did. “Well, plenty of tourists pass through here on their way to Newport and the Cape,” I said. “You’d be surprised at how many. And we have a considerable mail order business. Out-of-print books, rare first printings, special editions.”

“Web site?”

“Not yet, but it’s on the drawing boards,” I lied. I’d been way too busy to figure that one out—but maybe by the time the article ran, I’d get something under e-construction.

I felt Sadie’s eyes on my back and stole a glance in her direction. She was smiling and nodding—the matchmaker nod.
Eeeesh
. I shot back the warning look: I am
not
in the market for a match, thank you very much!

“Of course, like everyone else, I heard about the incident last night, and about Timothy Brennan’s death,” Howie Westwood said.

“Yes,” I said, frowning. “A terrible thing.”

“Not really so terrible for you, though, right? I mean, business looks pretty good. You and your aunt seem to be profiting nicely from Brennan’s death.”

For a moment, I was speechless. It was true. He was right. I couldn’t deny it. But hearing it stated so coldly, so matter-of-factly . . . it made me feel awful.

“We didn’t plan for this to happen,” I finally murmured. “And as you can see, we haven’t raised the price of the book, despite the inflated bidding on eBay. We’re not trying to take advantage—we’re just handling the customers who’ve come to us. And I assure you, Mr. Westwood, Brennan’s death was a terrible thing to witness.”