The Ghost and Mrs. McClure

“How wonderful!” she exclaimed, though her forced grin gave me the impression she didn’t care in the least.

I turned to bolt the door, but something caught my attention: a man was loitering across the street, just beyond the dull beams of the streetlight on the corner. In my head, I whispered to Jack, “Who is that standing across the street?”

How should I know? he said.

“What kind of response is that?! You’re supposed to be a private eye. Go on over and find out!”

Can’t leave the premises, doll. Don’t ask me why.

“Why?”

Because I don’t have an answer.

Frustrated with Jack’s double-talk, I stared harder beyond the door’s pane, trying to make out the details of the dark silhouette, but I didn’t recognize the rain slicker, and the big hood was pulled up and around the man’s face.

I’d been peering through the window so intensely, I nearly jumped when Shelby spoke up behind me: “I don’t suppose you received that special order yet? The one I had sent directly from our warehouse?”

I turned to face her, noticing the woman’s gaze was not on me at all. She’d been looking at the figure across the street, too. When I answered, however, she immediately shifted her eyes to me.

“Actually, five hundred hardcovers arrived this morning,” I said.

“Isn’t it convenient the Salient House warehouse is just an hour away,” said Shelby. “Normally, an order like that would take much longer to fulfill.”

“Yes, I was surprised by the speed—but I was absolutely shocked by the amount of books in the order. I mean, last night, you said ‘a few’ more books would be charged to our account number. I can’t figure where ‘a few’ translates into twenty cartons.”

“Of course, Salient House will accept any returns—”

“To tell you the truth, when the delivery man rolled all of those boxes in this morning, I feared we’d never move so many copies. But we’ve already sold more than half the shipment. It turns out you were right to order so many.”

“I’m so glad,” Shelby replied. “I could see from the way you’d mismanaged the event room setup last night that you wouldn’t be on top of your inventory needs, either.”

Did she just take a shot at me? I wondered.

She aimed and fired, all right, Jack said in my head.

“Well, as new releases go, I can’t say that I have any experience managing inventory for a circumstance like this one,” I said politely, evading an accusation that her large order did force us into a position where we appeared to be exploiting an author’s sudden death.

The implication didn’t seem to bother Shelby in the least. “Of course, it’s understandable how the whole thing was just beyond your abilities to handle,” she answered breezily. “Isn’t it fortuitous the way it all turned out—that I was able to do the right thing for you and your store? At Salient House, we’re often exasperated by the provincial attitudes of our unsophisticated vendors, especially those independent booksellers not based in major urban areas. So many such booksellers just aren’t willing to take full advantage of a situation.”

In typical “corporate speak”—polite, evasive, and nonspecific—I guess the tragedy of Timothy Brennan’s death could be called a “situation.”

“This store is impressive,” Shelby said, moving suddenly from insulting to ingratiating. “And such a responsibility.”

“We try,” I said.

“Well, don’t feel bad about not knowing quite enough about the publishing business yet.” Shelby Cabot’s eyes locked on mine. “Just as long as you rely on the help of people like me.”

Was this woman actually trying to provoke me? I wondered.

If you’re gonna imitate a doormat, Jack barked in my head, the least you could do is stretch out on the floor so she can wipe her feet.

“I admit, Mr. Brennan’s signing was this store’s very first,” I said. “But I have had plenty of experience in the publishing business.”

“Really?” Shelby replied. She arched an eyebrow skeptically, even as she brushed a wet ringlet of black hair away from her high, smooth forehead.

“Oh, yes,” I continued, naming the publisher I had worked for, and a brace of popular authors with whom I’d worked in my days as a “publishing professional.”

As I rattled off the names, I realized it was an impressive list, even if my dealings with some of those talents would be casually dismissed as “past history”—because, unfortunately, these days publishing operated on the “What have you done for me lately?” principle. The key, of course, being the post-dot- bomb era’s interpretation of the word “lately,” which used to mean over the past five years, but now meant over the past six weeks (the length of time chain stores gave a book to catch on before it was sent back to the publisher’s warehouse in a DDS truck).

Unfortunately, by the time I was finished reciting my resume, I felt cheap and hollow. Suddenly I was having a flashback to my worst days in that badly managed New York publishing office, where the overall dynamic was vintage John Bradshaw dysfunctional family.

In my experience, lazy, bad managers were the ones most impressed by the slick self-promoters. The hardest workers, who tended to be boring nose-to-the-grindstone types, were subsequently overlooked. My problem was that I’d been brought up to believe self-promotion was not, in fact, a virtue. Bragging, I’d been taught, was a form of conceit not to be encouraged, respected, or admired. And it’s something I still believe, frankly.

However, when the vulgar endeavor of blowing your own horn becomes the quickest road to advancement in an office, you’re sunk if you keep your mouth shut.

Style over substance, lip service over true service, self-promotion for rank promotion: I shudder to think how many offices in America are managed with this philosophy. But, I fear, it’s an inescapable reality. Thus, boring, dedicated workers go unrewarded—while slick, pushy operators are put in charge.

I actually felt my stomach turn as these memories of office politics washed over me. I wanted to believe I was over all this, that I’d put it firmly behind me with my move north. But Shelby had dragged me right back, down to her level. A few minor insults and I’d stooped to bragging in my own defense.

Don’t be so hard on yourself, said Jack. I got dragged down plenty in back alleys. Sometime there’s nothing you can do about it. Just make sure your punches land.

Okay, maybe I did land a good one: Shelby’s smile became a little more plastic, a little more forced, and I felt that sickly familiar sense of satisfaction. But my victory was fleeting. Women like Shelby were far better than I at this game.

“Interesting bit of experience you’ve had,” she snipped with the sort of creepy cheeriness one usually only hears in a gothic melodrama. “Too bad it’s all behind you. Don’t feel too bad about it, though. Not everyone can hack the big leagues.”

My fantasy about wringing her neck was interrupted, thankfully, by my own private dick. You’ve done a good job distracting her, doll. Now ask about Joshy boy.

Jack was right, of course—and he probably noticed that I’d done a good job distracting myself, too. Okay, I thought, back to business.

“It’s so very difficult to decide about people,” I said, trying hard to keep my delivery casual. “I mean, it takes a truly gifted manager to quickly judge who has the ‘right stuff’ and who is just going to be some total loser, you know? To judge right away who deserves your encouragement and help and who you should crush—for the good of the company, of course.”

“That’s very true.” Shelby’s eyes widened with glee.

Bingo! People like Shelby were fairly transparent. Nailing her “philosophy” on office politics wasn’t hard.

“I wonder, what’s your opinion of someone like Josh?” I asked. “Do you think he’ll make it?”

She flapped her hand. “Josh is a conniving little toady, if you want my unvarnished opinion.”

“Oh, by all means. Don’t hold back.”