The Ghost and Mrs. McClure

“I’ll be right back. I’m not tired at all.” Then, nut tart raised high, he parted the crowd, announcing, “Don’t worry, folks. We have plenty of copies of that Shield book!”

The transformation from indifferent kid to dedicated bookseller seemed nothing short of miraculous to me.

“He looks happy for once,” said Linda.

“It’s simple,” said Sadie. “Being needed is the best medicine, and right now we need all the help we can get.”

“Ab-sh-o-lulley!” I garbled around the nut tart, stuffed into my cheeks like a famished squirrel.

“Milner says if we have a few more days like this, we can finally afford that new awning,” said Linda as Sadie and I continued to ring up and bag the customers’ purchases.

“It’s entirely possible,” I said. “Sadie and I gave three television interviews so far today.”

“Ohmygod, we’re rich,” said Linda. “Your store’s put Quindicott on the map!”

“Well, tell that to our favorite councilwoman,” I said.

“The Municipal Zoning Witch? Why?” asked Linda.

“She stopped by this morning, primarily to threaten us,” I said.

“Oh, yeah,” said Sadie. “Pinkie was in rare form. She predicted our author appearance fiasco last night would turn the town’s economic clock backward.”

“Well, I never knew this town had an economic clock,” said Linda. “But if it does, I’d say you two set it to running on fast forward. Franzetti’s Pizza and Sam’s Seafood Shack is jammed. The gas station has a line around the block, Colleen’s turning away manicure customers, and Seymour’s ice cream truck looks like a mosh pit.”

“A mosh what?” asked Sadie.

“It’s kind of like when bobby-soxers used to rush the stage at a Sinatra concert,” Linda explained.

“Geez, Louise, you don’t have to go back that far,” said Sadie. “An Elvis analogy would have sufficed.”

“Speaking of mosh pits,” I said, “we’re going to be in the middle of one ourselves if we don’t get more books on the floor.”

“I’ll go,” said Sadie. “Linda, you take over Spencer’s place? Pen can ring up the purchases.”

“Hey, whoever works here!” called a male voice near the floor display. “Your Brennan display is almost empty again!”

Sadie flipped up the hinged counter. “Well, as that Statie detective put it this morning, looks like death is good for business.”

“Okay,” said Linda, “put me to work. What was Spence doing, anyway?”

“Stamping and bagging,” I said.

“Bagging I’ve heard of, but what the heck is ‘stamping’?”

“It’s simple,” I said, slapping the rubber stamper into her hand. As I spoke, I rang up another sale: four copies of Shield of Justice, the latest Janet Evanovich, and a book from our out-of-print section, one of the first U.S. editions of Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express— published by Dodd, Mead in 1934 as Murder in the Calais Coach. (I was gratified to see customers buying other titles in addition to Brennan’s book.)

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.”