The Ghost and Mrs. McClure

The councilwoman was now shaking her finger in Sadie’s face. “Don’t you threaten me, Sadie Thornton!”

“Threat?” Sadie said calmly. “That was no threat. Really, Marjorie, can’t you recognize a simple insult when you hear it?”

I so hated confrontations. But whenever Sadie and Marjorie were in a room together, friction seemed inevitable. Sadie would never discuss the reason, but the bad blood between the two women was long-standing. It predated even the feud between Marjorie and the Quindicott small-business owners, which had been going strong for well over a decade.

Linda Cooper-Logan had actually dubbed the woman “the Municipal Zoning Witch” because of the relentless list of regulations and taxes she continually attempted to pass on local businesses.

The woman had very wealthy backers, too, thanks in part to her willingness to advance their private concerns. The McClures were among them. They still owned quite a bit of land in Quindicott, despite the fact that most of their residences were in New York, Palm Beach, and Newport.

In return for her various “favors,” to people such as the McClures, Marjorie expected backing for the Council president’s office next year and maybe even the governor’s office in the future—or so she liked to tell people. Lately, she’d taken to wearing Hillary Clinton pastel suits, and, according to Colleen, she’d even asked for her brown hair to be dyed blond and cut short a la Hillary.

“Hillary Smillary,” Aunt Sadie had said when Colleen had passed along the gossip. “Thirty years ago that woman was obsessed with the Kennedys. Even dyed her hair black like Jackie O’s. Marjorie is just a silly, silly woman.”

“I know your tactics, Marjorie,” said Sadie, tightening her grip on the aluminum bat and raising it up just a fraction from her side. “You’re always looking for some issue to advance your political profile. Well, you’re not latching onto this one—even if it is the biggest news that’s hit this town since Seymour Tarnish won twenty-five thousand dollars on Jeopardy!”

“You’re wrong, Sadie.” Marjorie’s eyes narrowed and she actually poked her manicured finger into Sadie’s small shoulder. “This isn’t about politics, it’s about rules. You haven’t paid the town for the proper license to sell food!”

What a shakedown artist, said the Jack Shepard voice. You want some advice? Grab that bat and give it a swing or two.

“Shut up,” I rasped.

“What did you tell me?” said Marjorie, wheeling to confront me.

“Take it easy,” I said, quickly backing up a step. “We don’t have a license to sell food because we aren’t selling food. You can check with the people who came last night. Welsh and Eddie took down all their statements—”

“You’re denying you had food here? What about the doughnut Brennan choked on, then?”

“We did serve complimentary refreshments during the social gathering, which is within our right,” I said. “But Timothy Brennan didn’t choke to death on a doughnut. He didn’t even eat.”

“What about the news report?” challenged Marjorie, slapping at the paper in my hand.

“It’s the Quindicott Bulletin, not the Boston Globe!” cried Sadie. “It’s Elmer Crabtree, for cripes sake!”

Elmer, the Quindicott Bulletin’s publisher, was pushing eighty these days, but his age wasn’t the issue. His primary business had always been as local printer of things such as supermarket flyers, sales brochures, and wedding invitations. More than forty years ago, he’d started the Bulletin not to extend the fourth estate or to put truth on the kitchen tables of the Quindicott citizenry, but to make a tidy profit from local business ads and grocery store coupons.

The Bulletin’s contents, therefore, mostly consisted of verbatim press releases from town officials, notices for local meetings, sports scores from school teams, and classified ads for selling used cars and the like. He wrote up the occasional “hard news” story on his front page—like the piece on Brennan’s death. But he was almost never an eyewitness—and neither were his usual sources. The accounts, in fact, were primarily told to him third- and fourthhand.

“You know how he gets most of his news?” said Sadie. “Busybodies leaving messages on his phone machine!”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s true. It’s in print!” cried Marjorie.

“I can understand your concern,” I said quickly, trying to defuse the argument. “But even Brennan’s own daughter Deirdre can verify he ate nothing. In fact, Brennan told me he never eats at author appearances—he probably had a nervous stomach or something.”

“Well, if he didn’t choke on a doughnut, what did he die of, then?” asked Marjorie.

“His daughter mentioned in passing that he had a weak heart.” I was reaching—my nervous shrug making that patently obvious. “But I’m sure the state medical examiner’s autopsy results will be made public.”

Then I thought about all those fans dressed as Jack Shield and the terrified look on Brennan’s pale face before he died. My stomach nearly lost its contents. Of course, I kept as brave a face as possible in front of the councilwoman. My bright idea may have inadvertently helped along Brennan’s heart attack, but Buy the Book certainly hadn’t done anything criminal.

“Well, I’m warning you both right now that I’ve already made a few phone calls to the proper authorities,” said the councilwoman, turning her pink leather pumps toward the door. “And no matter what the outcome of their investigation, it’s more than apparent you’ve brought bad luck to this town—and most likely busted our budget, too. I shudder to think of the municipal overtime costs incurred from last night’s . . . mishap.”

After a martyr’s sigh, she continued, “I tell you, I’ve been working for years to bring business back to Quindicott, and this botched event is sure to set the economic clock backward. I swear, if you’ve ruined this town’s chances for a recovery, I’ll come after your license to operate a business at all!”

Marjorie opened her mouth, about to continue, when she stopped abruptly, her eyes taking in my disheveled appearance, from my shredded hosiery to my copper tangles. “Penelope Thornton-McClure, what in the world happened to you? You look as though you’ve been out partying all night! What sort of life have you got your son involved in? I just spoke to your sister-in-law, and I’m sure the McClures would not approve.”

Here we go, I thought.

After Calvin’s leap, the McClures—led primarily by Calvin’s older sister, Ashley McClure-Sutherland—never came right out and said they blamed me for Calvin’s suicide; that maybe I was the crazy one; and that my son would be better off with them than me. But I knew very well they were constantly looking for an excuse to take my boy away.

“Aw, get lost, already,” Sadie told Marjorie.

“Fine,” she said, “I’m going. But I must remind Penelope that the McClures are expecting to see her and Spencer at Gardener’s big birthday party tomorrow. The precious boy is turning nine. It’s a very big day, you know. I’m invited as well, of course.”

“Marjorie, I’m sorry, but I told my sister-in-law already, Spence and I can’t make it. Sadie and I just reopened the store a week ago, and I need to be here to work.”

“Yes, well, Ashley said you might be too busy, with this store and all. That’s why she told me to tell you she’s going to have her chauffeur pick up Spencer and drive him to the Newport estate. Spencer has a right to see his cousin, you must admit.”

“I don’t think Spence should go without me—” I began, but Marjorie cut me off.

“Nonsense!” said Marjorie. With one more snide look, she added, “You don’t want me to suggest to them that I found you looking as though you’d been out partying all night . . . do you?”

Tell her to go to hell, the ghost voice said in my head.

I gritted my teeth and ignored it.

“The car will be here at nine o’clock sharp. Make sure he’s ready. Ta!” With a wave of her hand and a tinkling of the door’s little bell, Marjorie was gone. Sadie looked mad enough to spit. But she didn’t have time.