The Ghost and Mrs. McClure

“It’s nothing personal. I like him otherwise, you understand. He’s just typical of the kids coming out of college these days. Doesn’t want to listen to people above him—just wants responsibility handed to him. Like this very hot literary author the company’s putting on tour in January. Josh has got it in his head that he can direct the tour, take care of the author, and handle all the media appearances. Crazy. He’s been with the company less than a year, and he’s already lobbying me for a prime assignment like that. But I don’t trust him, frankly. And I think he’d do just about anything to get ahead.”

That gave me pause.

Okay, so I didn’t like Shelby, but I believed what she was saying where Josh was concerned—mainly because her summation was rapid-fire and not in the least forced. There was no sign of the plastic expressions or ingratiating fakeness of her previous exchanges. Nothing phony was present in her judgment of Josh; she’d meant what she’d said.

And what does that tell you? asked Jack.

“It tells me that Josh has a motive for doing something risky, like helping Brennan’s killer,” I silently told Jack, “if the risk helps him advance his career. But I don’t see any connection between Brennan’s death and Josh’s advancement. Unless he’s helping Shelby, and she’s the killer, but what motive would she have for killing Brennan? Her glory was in directing his big book tour—and now that’s over. Shelby had no motive to kill Brennan. None that I can see.”

There’s got to be a connection between Josh and the murderer. You just need to find more dots to connect, doll. So look for more dots.

I was about to ask Shelby more about Josh when I heard footsteps outside. I turned to see a hooded figure lunging toward the door.

I screamed. Shelby Cabot screamed. And the figure recoiled back.

Then he lunged forward again and jiggled the door handle, but found it locked.

“Who is it?” I cried. “Who are you?”

The man pulled down the hood of his L. L. Bean rain slicker and pointed to the handle of the locked door.

“It’s Kenneth!” Shelby said to me. “Kenneth Franken.”

I looked again. It was Kenneth Franken, the late Timothy Brennan’s son-in-law— though right now, with his soaked-through rain slicker and drooping hair, he more resembled a half-drowned lobsterman just finished with his traps.

I unbolted the door. As Kenneth stepped in, the downpour followed him. Rain splattered everywhere.

“I’m sorry I frightened you,” he said.

“Come in and get dry,” I told him.

As he came through the doorway, Kenneth slipped on the wet floor and grabbed my arm to steady himself.

“Excuse me,” he mumbled.

Kenneth Franken’s hand was cold—very cold, and he was soaked to the skin. Obviously, he had been out in the night a long time. I glanced across the street, but that loitering man was gone. I knew then that he had been that man.

How odd, I thought. Why would Franken lurk about in the rain? Why not just knock?

Franken turned to stare at Shelby Cabot. The woman wheeled, deliberately giving him her back, which Kenneth just stared at. So I stood staring at Kenneth. The silence continued until I, for one, was feeling rather embarrassed. I was about to say something to break the obvious tension when Shelby turned around and faced me.

“I am sorry to trouble you,” she said, running her hand through her wet hair. “But could I . . . freshen up somewhere?”

“Certainly,” I said, although her still-flawless makeup seemed Titanic proof to me.

“Upstairs?” she asked, gesturing.

“No. We have rest rooms on this level, beyond the events area near the emergency exit.”

Shelby Cabot nodded and walked off.

When she was out of earshot, Kenneth Franken spoke.

“I’m sorry about my behavior earlier today,” he began. “Getting so upset about the makeup case. With my wife so distraught, I’ve been under a strain. You understand, don’t you?”

“Of course I understand.”

“Good, good . . . uhm . . . yes . . . well . . . I came by tonight because”—he looked at the floor, then at the shelves, then off in the direction where Shelby had gone—“I was wondering if you knew anything at all about what my late father-in-law announced last evening. The matter about the real Jack Shepard disappearing in this town, maybe on these premises.”

Call me crazy, but it seemed awfully late for him to suddenly come by just to ask a question like that. He’d been here hours ago and hadn’t mentioned a thing about it.

Nevertheless, he’d asked me a direct question, so I searched my mind, sorting through my past experiences growing up in this town. I thought about Aunt Sadie, who’d inherited the store from her father, who’d inherited the store from his brother—a mysterious figure in the family whom I knew very little about.

The fact was, for this question, I’d need some help.

“Jack?” I said aloud, hoping the ghost would silently supply me some facts. But he clearly wasn’t offering any details at the moment.

“Yes, Jack Shepard,” said Kenneth, who assumed, of course, I had spoken to him.

“I’m sorry,” I said after a long pause—and complete silence from my ghost. “I really don’t know what Mr. Brennan was talking about. Of course, you could come back tomorrow and ask my aunt. Sadie’s memory reaches a lot farther back than mine.”

“Perhaps I shall. I do apologize for coming here so late, but I wanted to speak in private. There were so many people around today—you do understand?”

“Yes, of course,” I replied, feeling like he was trying awfully hard to make me not suspect him of anything, which, of course, made me certain he was guilty of something . “You’re welcome to come by anytime, Mr. Franken.”

“Thank you. . . .”

He paused, seeing Shelby Cabot emerge from the shadows of the events room. Her hair was combed, her makeup still perfect, but she didn’t seem noticeably “fresher”; in fact, she seemed more pale, more tense than before.

“I think we’ve troubled Mrs. McClure long enough for one evening,” Kenneth said. Then he handed Shelby her coat. “We should really be going now.”

The emphasis was on “we,” and despite the fact that Shelby Cabot looked like she wished to remain, good manners forced her to say good night.

“I’ll see you again, Mr. Franken?” I asked as neutrally as possible.

“Oh, yes,” he replied. “Detective-Lieutenant Marsh asked my wife and me to stay on for a few days . . . answer any questions that might arise . . . that sort of thing. And you know Deirdre wants to hold a press conference here—when the state medical examiner’s office releases their autopsy findings.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right. Well, good night, then,” I said. I opened the door and ushered the pair into the night.

Immediately, I spoke to the air. “Jack, hurry and follow them.”

Can’t.

“What do you mean, ‘can’t’?”

Through the window, I watched Shelby and Kenneth walk slowly down Cranberry Street, in the direction of Quindicott Pond and Finch’s Inn, which made sense, since they were both checked in there. Suddenly they stopped and began to argue.

“Come on, Jack, get a move on! Get out there!”

Penelope, listen to me. I can’t get beyond the walls and windows of this store. Believe me, doll, I would if I could. There’re plenty of places hipper than this cornball town.