“What investigation?” I asked, finally regaining the power of speech.
“The investigation into the events surrounding a suspicious death that occurred on these premises last evening,” Lieutenant Marsh replied, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Suspicious death?” Brainert said with a snort. “Don’t you mean ‘mishap’?”
The lieutenant’s eyes shifted to Brainert.
“Who are you, sir? And why are you here?”
I could see Brainert’s thin chest swell as his face turned scarlet with indignation. I took a breath and waited for the explosion. But before it came, Officer Eddie Franzetti of the Quindicott Police hurried through the door and practically threw himself between the lieutenant and Brainert. Behind Eddie came four more officers of the State Police, and Eddie’s partner, Officer Tibbet. Beyond them I could see the shocked and surprised faces of the crowd still waiting on the sidewalk to enter the store.
“I think you should leave now,
“I . . . I . . .” Brainert stammered.
As graceful as a dancer, Eddie sent Brainert into his partner’s arms, who led Brainert out the door. Then Officer Franzetti turned and faced us. “Detective-Lieutenant Marsh needs access to any foods or beverages left over from last night’s event,” he explained, looking at me. “And his forensics team will need to see where the garbage was dumped.”
I stammered, unable to help Detective-Lieutenant Marsh for the simple reason that I was in an alcohol- induced slumber when the community events space was cleaned and the chairs folded. Fortunately, Aunt Sadie stepped in.
“There are some bottles of water in the storeroom,” she said. “And the garbage from last night was thrown into the Dumpster in back.”
Detective-Lieutenant Marsh nodded to his team, and two uniformed officers took off—presumably to the back to retrieve our suspicious garbage.
“Lock that door,” Marsh barked.
“We’re due to open—” Sadie said.
“Only when we’re done here,” Detective-Lieutenant Marsh said. “Not before. Right now these premises are considered a crime scene and are closed to the public until my forensics team gathers evidence and completes their initial investigation.”
Aunt Sadie nodded.
The plainclothed detective turned and scanned the sidewalk. “Looks like death was good for business,” Marsh said meaningfully. Then his eyes fixed on me once again.
“I will also need to interview”—he doubled-checked the warrant in his hand—“a Mrs. Penelope Thornton- McClure.”
I nodded, getting more and more uncomfortable under the lieutenant’s suspicious gaze.
“If you need to see the leftovers, just follow me,” Sadie said. She turned and marched to the storeroom.
Marsh and the last of his uniformed Staties followed Aunt Sadie. When they were out of sight—and earshot —Eddie turned to me. We both let out sighs at the same time.
Officer Eddie Franzetti, the eldest son of Joe Franzetti, was one of my late brother’s best friends back in high school. Though now a family man, he still retained his boyish charm. And he was quite handsome—especially so in his dark blue police uniform. Unlike his brothers, who were content to sling pizza dough at the family restaurant, Eddie wanted something different out of life. A stint in the military was followed by a job on the local police force— and marriage to the most popular girl in Quindicott High School. I always liked Eddie and knew I could trust him to be straight with me now.
“So what’s going on?” I asked in a soft whisper.
Eddie tilted his hat back and scratched his head. “Apparently, Councilwoman Binder-Smith made a few phone calls last night after she heard what happened here. When the police chief was less than responsive to the councilwoman’s ‘suggestions’ she went over his head.”
“To the State Police!” I said. “She must have called in a lot of favors to get them involved.”
“Not really. All it takes is a request from a town official—the mayor, the police, or a town councilman—to bring in the Staties,” explained Eddie. “And if the circumstances require it, a warrant can be issued within minutes.”
“Great. Thanks for the civics lesson.”
I told myself it didn’t matter. Once the autopsy came through—and it was officially established that Timothy Brennan’s death was from natural causes—then all of this was sure to go away. But a voice inside told me that my troubles were only beginning. And another voice—not mine at all—said something I didn’t want to hear:
I leaned against the counter, trying to catch my breath. I told myself to ignore the “ghost” voice and be reasonable, logical, practical.
“Brennan wasn’t murdered,” I silently told myself—and that annoying deep voice. “He died of some sort of stroke or heart attack. An autopsy will certainly prove it, and then all this . . .
Officer Franzetti was still speaking, but I just nodded at his words, not really hearing them.
Outside, I noticed the crowd swelling. Even on top of the other shocks of this morning, that surprised me. I thought the arrival of the State Police would have scared them off. Instead it seemed to attract even more curious people.
I searched the crowd for the face of Josh, the young man from Salient House. But he was gone—the only one the army of State Policemen seemed to scare, I noted.
“Eddie, excuse me,” I suddenly said. “I need to go upstairs, see to my son, and clean up.”
“Oh, sure, Pen. Take your time.” His chin gestured toward the Staties at work. “I know
Great. Just great, I thought. A record crowd at opening, and we’re closed for an episode of
CHAPTER 8
There are things happening. . . . They go on right under your very nose and you never know about them.
AFTER ALL THESE decades, the ghost of Jack Shepard knew the layout at 122 Cranberry like the back of his hand—that is, like he used to know the back of his hand.
Six rooms occupied the second floor: a sunny eat-in kitchen with faded gold wallpaper and yellow curtains, a cozy living room with a smoke-stained fireplace and tall front windows, two large bedrooms, one child-size bedroom, and one bath. The old rooms were always kept tidy, but they showed the wear and age of an owner who had neither the wealth nor the youth to upgrade them.
The ghost of Jack Shepard tailed Penelope Thornton-McClure up the stairs and into those well-worn rooms. First stop: her son’s bedroom, a ten-by-ten space in need of repainting. The kid was still asleep on a small twin bed. Like the chest of drawers and nightstand, the white wood headboard displayed scratches and knicks, but the Curious George covers appeared clean and new. When Penelope kissed her son’s copper bangs, he stirred.
“Mom?”
“Morning, honey. How did you sleep?”
The boy sat up. Yawned. Frowned. “Bad dream,” he said.
“Again?” asked Penelope, sitting on the narrow bed. “Same kind?”
The kid nodded his head in the affirmative. Penelope hugged her son close and rocked him for a long
