The Ghost and Mrs. McClure

“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.”

“Witness . . . yes,” Howie continued. “And the whole thing unfolding in front of his daughter and son-in-law. They were right here attending the talk, right? Were they close to Mr. Brennan when he . . . was stricken?”

I wasn’t surprised by his questions. But with autopsy results still pending and Brennan’s family still in Quindicott, I felt it was the proper thing to duck any touchy questions—just as I’d ducked them with the television interviews earlier in the day.

Television . . . my mind considered the fact that a few of those interviews had already aired. I suddenly wondered if that was why Howie was here. Had he seen one of those interviews and—noting the lack of details— decided to come by himself and try his hand at prying them loose? Well, I couldn’t blame the guy for trying, I decided. But still, I held firm:

“Many people attended last night’s event,” I told him. “And many people rushed to Mr. Brennan’s aid. I think it’s best if you ask Mr. Brennan’s family these questions. They’re staying right here in town, at Finch’s Inn. It’s on the eastern edge of town, on the pond. Well, we call it a pond, but it’s really a small lake at the end of a coastal inlet.”

“Of course,” Howie Westwood replied. Though the smile was still plastered on his face, behind his little round glasses I saw a cold curtain draw down across the man’s green eyes.

“Could you show me around?” he said, his charm returning, a little more forced this time.

“Sure,” I said.

After all, like Publishers Weekly, Independent Bookseller was a respected magazine in the industry of bookselling, especially for its often-quoted review section. Its circulation had fallen off in the past decade, of course, with the closing of so many independent bookstores—due to the gross sales dollars of the book business being hijacked by the chain stores (and I’m not just talking Borders and Barnes & Noble, but also places such as Costco, Wal-Mart, and Sam’s Club, where you could toss your Grisham in a cart with your economy crates of grapefruit and galoshes).

In any event, I wanted to be cooperative. An article in Independent Bookseller would be lovely for Buy the Book. It would influence publicists to put our store on their “A list” author tours, and it might even get Sadie and me invited to some of those boffo celebrity book parties thrown by big publishers at next May’s BEA (BookExpo America, that is, the nation’s largest trade show for publishers and booksellers).

I showed Howie the store, talked about the strategy for moving inventory, the customer base, the Shaker rockers, the renovations—everything and anything except the traumatic events of the night before. He took notes by way of a small tape recorder.

Each time he broached the subject of my opinion of Timothy Brennan and his family and the play-by-play of his death the night before—and there were more than a few times when he did—I answered by being as politely vague as possible (I lived with my prying in-laws long enough to become familiar with that sort of lingual dexterity).

Finally we reached the community events space, right near the podium Timothy Brennan was standing behind when he collapsed. Howie Westwood again pressed me for details about the incident. He couldn’t miss the tone of impatience I now had in my voice as I replied,

“Look, why don’t you interview Shelby Cabot? She was the woman in charge of the publicity tour for Salient House and—”

“Penelope, come on. She’s Salient House’s spokesperson.” He stared at me.

“Yes. Meaning?”

“Meaning her mouth is programmed to speak only in empty corporate syllables. She’s never going to give me any real details—the sort of details that will make the article on your bookstore worth reading, if you catch my meaning.”

“Oh, I catch your meaning.” I folded my arms. “Sorry, Charlie.”

“The name’s Howie.”

“Yes. I know.”

He blinked, his smile disappearing. Then, smoothly, it reappeared. “You’re sure a tough one, Penelope, I’ll give you that. Okay, then, I’ll look her up.”

His charm was still there, but his polish was dimming, and I began to wonder if he wasn’t some other kind of reporter—like maybe from a supermarket tabloid. I nearly shuddered as a headline flashed through my mind: CURSED BOOKSTORE PROVOKES FAMOUS AUTHOR’S DEATH. ARE MORE IN STORE?

“I had better get back to the register,” I said after an awkward pause.

“Of course,” Howie said, nodding. “I’ll just take a few notes about the look of the room if that’s okay.”

“Yes, of course,” I said. Then I raced to the front counter.

“Whoa, honey, where’s the fire?” said Aunt Sadie.

“What happened?” asked Linda. “Did he ask you out to dinner? Do you want to check your makeup?”

“No, no, no, for heaven’s sake!” I cried, bending under the counter to search the shelves. “Where is it?! Where is it?!”

“Where’s what?” the two women chorused.

“HERE!”

I snatched up my latest copy of Independent Bookseller, which I always kept alphabetically above issues of Kirkus, Library Journal, select printouts of an inner-circle e-newsletter called Publishers Lunch, and Publishers Weekly.

“Where’d you leave lover boy?” asked Sadie.

“In the events room,” I said. “And don’t call him that!”

“What are you looking for?” asked Linda as I flipped the front pages of the magazine until I reached the masthead.

My finger followed the small print down to the names of the staff writers. “Ohmygod, it really is him.”

“Him who?” asked Linda. “Lover boy?

I shot her an unhappy look and pointed to the magazine page. Sure enough, the name was there: Howie Westwood, Senior Editor.

“What’s the matter?” asked Sadie.