The Ghost and Mrs. McClure

A Worthy Suspect

O. Henry wrote of crime, but he seldom wasted precious words on the dry-as-dust business of questioning stupid witnesses and hunting—through endless pages—for clues that mean little or nothing when found. . . . He wrote about real people—and the reader suffered and rejoiced with them, in direct proportion with their reality. . . .

Opening statement by “The Editor,” Detective Tales, August 1935

“EXCUSE ME, LADY, but you’re cutting the line.”

“Excuse me,” Aunt Sadie shot back, “but I’m trying to open my store!”

Cameras clicked and lightbulbs flashed. A microphone emblazoned with the letters of a local television station was thrust into Sadie’s face.

“Who do you think committed the Bookstore Murder?” a pretty young blond demanded. Behind her, a cameraman with a backward baseball cap tried to film us over the heads of the crowd.

“Er . . . ah,” Sadie stammered.

“No comment,” I said in a clipped tone, channeling every suspicious politician I’d seen accosted by the press for the past decade.

But the reporter wouldn’t quit.

“Do you feel it is right to profit from this crime?” she asked, moving the mike from her face to mine so fast I got it on the chin. Yow!

“You heard the lady. No comment!” shouted Seymour. As I rubbed the bruised skin, he quickly stepped in front of me. “If you want to get into the store, you have to get in line like everybody else.”

I appreciated the fact that Seymour had taken point, but if there was an actual line to get into Buy the Book, I couldn’t see it. Just about a hundred people milling around, blocking the front of the bookstore and the other business fronts along the block—most of them mercifully closed on a Sunday. There were dozens of cars parked—and double-parked—up and down Cranberry Street, and I saw a few satellite vans as well. More journalists were no doubt lurking about, waiting to spring.

Horns blared as people ignored the bumper-to-bumper traffic and ran across the street in front of moving cars.

“I can’t believe this,” I said with a moan.

Seymour shook his head. “It’s the insidious power of the mass media.”

Seymour, Sadie, and I again tried to push through the crowd, but we might as well have been trying to part the Red Sea. The sidewalk was packed and people were spilling over into the street, sitting on cars, the curb, even in the doorways of other Cranberry Street businesses. Clearly, these folks had been here awhile—the sidewalk was littered with paper cups, crumpled wrappers, and empty bags. I made a mental note to buy a steel trash can and plant it in front of the store—soonest.

Bud Napp, the sixtyish owner of the town’s hardware store, cruised by in his truck, which was crawling along with the rest of the traffic. “Someone tore down the chains the city council put up around the Embry lot!” he crowed through his open window, giving a clenched-fist, power-to-the-people, up-with-the-revolution arm gesture. “Now the lot is jammed with parked cars!”

“Pinkie’s gonna love that,” said Aunt Sadie.

The traffic began to move and Bud drove on, whistling tunelessly.

So the news was not all bad. Bud was positively ecstatic (he’d been pushing to make that abandoned lot a parking area for as long as anyone could remember), and I spotted a long line of folks waiting to get into Cooper’s Bakery for coffee and pastries. There was a long line in front of Koh’s Grocery, too. Mr. Koh, who was restocking fruit on the outdoor stalls, saw Sadie and me trying to negotiate the crowd. Smiling, he bowed to us. I bowed back and he actually beamed!

We got another positive wave from Joe Franzetti, who was throwing pizza dough in his store’s window. His booths and tables were full, and the sidewalk was jammed with customers waiting for a slice.

In front of our own store, Sadie impatiently pushed against the crowd again. Like a living thing, the throng pushed back.

“Folks, you can’t get into the store if we can’t open it,” I pleaded.

The mob moved a little, but there were angry cries as people were crowded off the sidewalk. Suddenly I heard the sound of breaking glass as a bottle hit the concrete.

“That’s it!” Seymour roared. “What the hell do you people think this is, a mosh pit?!” To my surprise, the crowd drew back as people scrambled to get out of Seymour’s way. “Make a hole! Make a hole!” he shouted.

I turned to my aunt. “Make a hole?”

“Navy term,” she told me. “He’s obviously flashing back to those four years when he was an enlisted man.”

“Bite me, asshole!” someone shouted from the crowd.

Seymour whirled to face the heckler, who wore faded Levi’s, a St. Francis College sweatshirt, and a red bandanna around his head.

“I’m a postal worker, buster!” Seymour cried, a vein bulging on his forehead. “Do you really want a piece of me?!”

The heckler shrunk back in terror. And the mass of people seemed to finally break and flow back like ice on a thawing river. They might not respond to orders very well, but they all understood the meaning of the term “going postal.”

“That’s more like it,” cried Seymour. “Now let’s form a nice, orderly, single-file line starting right over here. That way everybody will get in to see the pretty store.”

While Seymour wrangled the crowd, Sadie unlocked the door and we slipped inside. Seymour came in behind us, but only after he issued a final warning to the college student.

“I’m keeping an eye on you, bub.”

Once through the door, I turned to Seymour. “Thanks,” I said. “We never would have gotten through that crowd ourselves.”

“My pleasure,” he said. “I’ll stick around if you like. It’s Sunday, so I’ve got no mail to deliver, and my ice cream truck’s out of supplies till Monday.”

“That would be really great,” I said.

“We’ll pay you in trade,” said Sadie. “First dibs on any pulp magazines that come in for the next six months. And you can have the first two free.”

Seymour gave her a thumbs-up.

I jumped behind the counter and booted up the register, the monitor, and the computer. Sadie glanced at her watch.

“Time to open,” she announced.

I took a deep breath, then nodded. Sadie turned the sign around to read OPEN and unlocked the front door.

As the crowd rushed in, I saw flashing lights at the curb. Officer Eddie Franzetti came rushing up to the doorway, his hand firmly on the billy club attached to his dark blue uniform’s utility belt.

“Pen, you need help here?” he asked. “I would have been here sooner, but Rev. Waterman was crazed about setting up barricades to keep cars out of his church lot.”

“No problem, Eddie. Seymour helped us out with the crowd control.”

“Seymour? Seymour Tarnish?” Eddie’s dark brown eyes widened, the thick eyebrows rising. He lifted the hat off his short black hair and wiped his forehead with the same hand, scratching the back of his head before putting the hat on again.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Seymour was great. And I’m sorry about the litter on the sidewalk. I’m getting a trash can first thing tomorrow. So let Pinkie—uh, I mean Councilwoman Binder-Smith—know that in case she calls you guys up to complain about us again.”

“Aw, that woman complains on a daily basis. About everyone. Listen, I better go,” Eddie said. “The Embry lot is a mess. Someone ripped the chains down and it’s total anarchy.” He eyed the crowd