The Ghost and Mrs. McClure

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.

CHAPTER 10

Inquiring Minds

“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 risque).

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.