The Ghost and Mrs. McClure

warily. “But if there’s any more trouble here, you be sure to call me anytime. For anything, okay?”

“Thanks, Eddie,” I called.

“Save a copy of Shield of Justice for me, too,” he tossed back.

“Will do! And tell MaryJo and the kids we’re getting the next Harry Potter in soon.” (So Harry Potter wasn’t technically a part of the mystery genre. So what? There were mystery elements—and no bookstore owner in her right mind would say no to stocking it.)

I watched Eddie drive off, then started my own thrilling new installment of Adventures in Retail.

“I FEEL A presence in this place. An unearthly presence. A spirit of the dead.”

The speaker was a woman who’d been waiting among the throng. She was past middle age, with long, frizzy, gray hair. She stared at me through wide, unblinking green eyes.

“You feel it, too,” she said.

Okay, she looked like she’d stepped out of Central Casting, or one of those classic old Universal horror films featuring a band of singing and dancing Gypsies—right down to the long, flowing, multicolored dress and Birkenstocks. But what the hell . . . I was desperate. Maybe this woman could sense spiritual beings. Maybe she was channeling Jack Shepard. Maybe she had some answers.

Nix on that, dollface.

Jack had spoken inside my head for the first time today. I hated myself for it, but I felt my heartbeat quicken just a little bit.

This battle-ax is one booze jag away from the drunk tank.

“Thanks for the valuable input, Jack,” I said silently. “Good morning to you, too.”

Seymour, at his post near the front door, pointed to his head and twirled his finger. Cuckoo! Then he silently mouthed something that looked like, “CNN really brings out the lunatics, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, Seymour,” I thought to myself. “If you only knew what I knew.”

I turned to the woman and asked, “Can I help you?”

“The spirit is in torment. It cries out!” the woman said, loud enough for the other customers to notice. “The spirit demands justice.”

This woman sounds sincere, I decided. My heart began to beat faster, wondering for a moment if Jack could be wrong.

“Is this woman really a sensitive?” I asked Jack.

Yeah, she’s sensitive, all right. said Jack. To bathtub gin and rotgut whiskey.

The woman spun on her heels, her dress billowing.

“Oh, yes,” she said, gazing at the ceiling. “It is the ghost of Timothy Brennan, cursed to haunt these premises until his murderer is punished.”

Brennan? said Jack. Here for eternity? Look around, toots. There ain’t a barstool or bookie in sight. Why would Brennan bother to stay in this place?

“I must listen for his voice!” she cried.

Shut her up, would you? Jack told me. Or I’ll scare the hell out of her myself.

“Don’t do that!” I silently warned Jack. “There are too many people around!”

“Ma’am,” I said, touching her shoulder. She spun on me.

“Do not touch a sensitive!” she screeched. I recoiled.

That’s it! Jack cried.

A moment later, the woman’s eyes bulged. Her jaw dropped.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Are you all right?”

“J-J-ack . . . J-j-jack Sh-sh-shepard!” she stammered, pointing at me.

“Great,” I thought. “Jack, what in the world are you doing?”

I’m projecting, he said. On you.

NOW GET THE HELL OUT OF MY STORE!

The woman screamed and ran. No one seemed to be aware of Jack or me. Or the fact that he’d just screamed so loud in my head I’d automatically put my hands to my ears—as useless as that was. All eyes were on the crazed lady running for the door.

“Well, that was certainly an education,” I told him.

Ha! Didn’t think I had it in me, did you?

“Actually, I didn’t.”

Well, it’s not a piece of cake or anything, said Jack. But when I’m really worked up . . .

“Remind me never to really work you up.”

With a sigh, my gaze followed the trail of the exiting lady—and my body froze. I felt as though I’d seen a ghost—but not Jack’s ghost, more like the ghost of felons past.

As the “sensitive” barreled through the front doorway, she jostled a familiar middle-aged woman. It was Anna Worth, the cereal heiress herself—returning to the scene of the crime, if Fiona Finch’s theory was correct.

This time Anna Worth came with a solicitous-looking older man in tow. He looked like a professor, graying at the temples and wearing tweed, with leather patches on his jacket.

Anna Worth, on the other hand, looked the height of fashion. Her sheer peach pantsuit was beautifully tailored, and pink-tinted sunglasses sat on top of her pale blond shoulder-length hair. I probably would not have recognized her had I not seen dozens of photographs of her at various ages not two hours ago. Seymour recognized her, too, and he casually moved toward the counter.

Despite her elegant attire, Anna Worth gave the impression not of a regal heiress but of a mouse stepping into the home of a very hungry feline. The farther into the store she moved, the more noticeably her shoulders drooped, the more rapidly her eyes began to dart about. When they finally strayed in the direction of the community space, she visibly paled.

The older man instantly reacted to her discomfort. He took her arm and steered the now nervous wreck of an heiress to the other end of the store, seating her in one of the Shaker rockers. She sat, and he kneeled at her side, speaking softly into her ear.

“Pssssst, Jack!” I thought as loudly as I could. “Be a help, would you, and eavesdrop on their conversation for me?”

I received no reply, and just hoped he had already gotten the same idea and was preoccupied with his “surveillance work” already.

Seymour leaned against the counter and said in a conversational tone, “Gee, maybe murderers do return to the scene of the crime.”

“Shhhhhh!” I hissed.

“Come on, you don’t really think this eighties flashback bumped off Brennan, do you? Fiona Finch has read one too many true crime books.”

“Look, look, she’s moving again,” Sadie whispered from the corner of her mouth.

Anna Worth had risen from the rocker and, with child-like baby steps, she began to move. Her companion followed her, rubbing his chin and eyeing Anna closely. The woman paused, and the man rushed to her side. Whispering, they moved through aisles of books, never once glancing at a title. Whatever they were doing here, they certainly weren’t here to purchase some light beach reading.

Seymour grinned and poked my arm. “Here’s your chance,” he said.

“Huh?”

“Follow them.”

“They’ll see me.”