The Ghost and Mrs. McClure

“I thought he was lying—that he was from a supermarket tabloid or something.”

“Did you blow it?” asked Linda.

“I think so,” I said. I hadn’t played ball. I’d been mildly hostile. And he’d implied some pretty caustic things about the store’s connection to the Brennan death. That was sure to reflect itself in the tone he used to write about the store.

“It’s not too late,” said Linda. “Invite him out tonight.”

“No!”

“Don’t be foolish,” said Sadie. “You deserve some fun. And the man obviously likes you.”

“You think?” I said. A pathetic equivocation.

“For sure,” said Linda. “And he’s a cutey. Go get him.”

“It’s really not like that,” I insisted. “It’s just business.”

Right, I thought. Who are you kidding? Certainly not them.

I put down the magazine and headed down the aisle. Along the way, I ran a hand through my copper tangles, adjusted my black-framed glasses, and straightened my loose white blouse.

Okay, there were things about Westwood that seemed a little too slick, a little too smooth, but it had been a long time since my late husband and I had . . . well, connected . . . on any level. At least Westwood reported on the book business, so we had something to talk about. And Sadie and Linda seemed to think he liked me. Maybe offering to show him around town wouldn’t be too forward.

I was barely able to catch him at the front door. “Mr. Westwood?”

“Oh, uh, Mrs. McClure. Thank you for your time.”

“No problem. I just wanted to tell you that I really do think Shelby Cabot will be helpful for your story,” I said, trying to make up for my earlier frostiness. “She’s staying at Finch’s Inn, too, with the Brennan family, and she can probably even get you the names of those two young cameramen.”

“Cameramen?” Howie Westwood’s eyes widened behind his little round glasses.

“Yes,” I said. “Two young men taped the whole event for C-SPAN. Didn’t you know that?”

Howie Westwood paled. “Nobody knows that. At least, I haven’t seen it reported.”

“Anyway, before you go, I was wondering . . .”

“Yes?”

Ask him, ask him, ask him! I railed at myself. Come on, Pen, don’t be such a wuss.

“Would you like me to show you around town?” I asked, my voice betraying me with a slight flirtatious lilt. “I mean, I thought the background could help your article about our store . . . maybe we could even get a cup of coffee or dinner. . . .”

The transparent reaction flashed across his features in a matter of seconds. It started out as a sour sort of squint of discomfort, then it softened into a kind of pained pity, then it hardened again, into a mask with a shallow, toothy grin and a chilly green stare.

I wanted to crawl into a hole right then and there.

He didn’t come right out and say, “You’ve got to be kidding. Me and you?” It was more like, “Oh, sure . . . maybe in a few days I might take you up on that,” and then he lunged for the door.

Yes, a deep, dark hole. That’s what I needed right now. Put me in. Cover me up.

The only thing that might keep me out was turning around to find Sadie and Linda not eavesdropping.

Slowly, I turned. Then exhaled with relief. They were both chatting and laughing with an elderly male customer, completely oblivious to my naked embarrassment.

“Thank goodness,” I murmured.

About the only thing worse than being utterly and completely rejected was having someone else witness it.

Screw the ass.

“Oh, no. Not you.”

Yes, me. The Jack Shepard voice was deep and rough and loud in my head.

“You’re not real,” I silently told it. “And I’m not listening.”

Forget that moron. He’s not who he’s pretending to be. I’d make book on it.

“Get lost. I mean it!”

I was in no mood to talk to Jack’s voice, but he was loud and insistent—and, even though I knew he wasn’t real, his invasion of my privacy felt real enough. Frankly, I was indignant.

I don’t know, doll. Seems to me you need a private eye on your side around here—even one who got lead poisoning fifty years back.

“And what makes you think so?”

Howie Westwood.

“What about him?”

He conned you.

“How do you know that?”

Simple observations, sugar. That’s all it took. The guy’s as phony as a three-dollar bill.

“Shows what you know. Or what you don’t. He’s a magazine writer. His name’s listed in the Independent Bookseller staff box.”

So the hood found a good cover? So what? That doesn’t explain the contradictions.

“What contradictions?”

You ought to try picking up a few pointers from some of the books you sell around here. Look, I know you noticed the guy was musclebound. His grip alone practically made you wince. You noticed the calluses, too. How many bookworms you know look like they can punch out a street cop?

“He could have been a fit bookworm,” Penelope said. “He did have glasses, which is common among people who make their living reading.”

Fake.

“Fake?”

The glass was clear. Not prescription. I’ll give you a pass on noticing that one, since you couldn’t get close enough. But I could. And did.

“But . . .”

Yeah?

“Those little round frames give a man a certain look,” I silently said. “He might be wearing them as a fashion statement.”

Doll, repeat after me: Men. Do not. Make fashion statements.

“Maybe they didn’t in your time. But they do now. Oh, why am I speaking to you as if you’re really the ghost of Jack Shepard?!! You’re just a voice. A stupid, silly voice in my head.”

And another thing—those set of pearly whites. Big, perfect ivories like that don’t happen in nature. God can’t even afford to give sets like that away. And, as far as I know, neither can a small magazine like the one your “Howie” claimed he worked for—

“He’s not my Howie—”

So tell me, doll, how many people in the book publishing game can afford that set of choppers? Not many, I’d wager. But it’s the sort of mouth job someone in a high-priced profession could afford. What does that tell you?

“Nothing. Just like you.”

You’re just stung ’cause nothing came of giving that chump the glad eye—

“Excuse me, but if you insist on speaking, would you mind speaking English?”

Don’t get your panties in a bunch, sister. I’m speaking English, all right. You gave Howie Westwood the glad eye. You were looking him over good, flirting with him, even fantasizing a few racy things if I’m