The Ghost and Mrs. McClure

“But you own the place,” Seymour insisted. “You’re practically help. And rich people like Anna Worth never notice the help. Ever. So go over and restock the shelves.”

I must have had a blank expression on my face because Seymour didn’t wait for my reply. Rolling his eyes, he reached into my carefully arranged new-releases section and grabbed a handful of titles off the table—the new Patricia Cornwell paperback, a Janet Evanovich, a brand-new thriller by Ed McBain, a short fiction collection by James Ellroy—and thrust them into my arms.

“Go restock the shelves,” he repeated, giving me a push.

Resigning myself to the inevitable, I pushed my black rectangular glasses up my nose; took a deep breath; and, assuming an air of what I hoped was casual indifference, set off to put copies of my brand-new releases among the older titles. A retailing erratum, but I told myself I was doing it in the name of ratiocination.

It didn’t take me but a minute to spot Anna Worth and her friend. They were standing near the Dennis Lehane novels. The closest letter I had in my hand was “M,” so Ed McBain would have to do. I approached the couple unseen. Fortunately, they were lost in conversation.

“Work through it,” the man whispered. “Face your darkest fears or they will own you, Anna.”

Anna Worth replied, but so softly I couldn’t hear her words.

I moved a little closer, pretending to adjust the Kellerman section—Jonathan and Faye—and even a Harry Kellerman rabbi mystery.

“You hated that man,” Tweedy replied. “How did it feel to watch him fall . . . to watch him die?”

His words startled me, and the entire Faye Kellerman collection tumbled to the floor. Anna Worth and the man spun around to face me. Anna had that deer-in-the-headlights stare.

It’s now or never, doll, Jack said in my head. Go ahead and ask.

Before I knew it, my mouth moved, and I spoke. “You’re Anna Worth, aren’t you? My name is Penelope Thornton-McClure, the co-owner of this store. I saw you here the other night, when Timothy Brennan died.”

Anna’s mouth moved, but no words came out. I could see torment—guilt, perhaps?—on her face. Whatever it was, her look made me bolder.

“Why were you here, Ms. Worth?” I said. “Surely you’re no fan of Mr. Brennan’s work.”

Anna Worth clutched Tweedy’s arm and turned her face away. “Please, Doctor, do something,” she whispered.

“Ms. McClure,” the man said indignantly, “surely you can see that this woman is distraught!”

“I can see that,” I replied. Then I turned to Anna Worth. “I am terribly sorry if I upset you. Of course, we’re all upset, knowing that we may have all witnessed a murder right here in this store the other night. You have heard the news, Ms. Worth? The police suspect foul play . . . poison.”

But Anna Worth really didn’t react to this news. She just blinked. It was the man in the tweed jacket who did most of the reacting. “I think you’ve upset my patient quite enough for one day,” he said, stepping between us.

“Your patient?”

Tweedy adjusted his tie. “My name is Dr. Stuart Nablaum, a practicing psychologist in Newport. Ms. Worth is my patient. I accompanied her two nights ago, and today, because we have some unfinished emotional business with Mr. Brennan.”

“You were here with Anna Worth the other night?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “Every moment. Anna is in such a delicate emotional state right now she can go nowhere without supervision—my supervision. Nor could I be so remiss as to have Ms. Worth face Timothy Brennan alone.”

“Why did she want to face Brennan at all?” I asked.

The man’s nostrils flared, and I thought he was going to throw me out of my own store. Then Anna spoke.

“Tell her,” she said in a breathy, little-girl voice.

“But Anna—”

“Please tell her, Stuart.”

Dr. Nablaum scowled at me. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Anna came here to face Timothy Brennan and tell him how much he had hurt her.”

“The scandal, you mean?” I said. “The articles Brennan wrote about it?”

Dr. Nablaum frowned. “Mrs. McClure, you probably don’t understand how hard a person has to fight to overcome an addiction—any addiction. Any bump in the road of life, any psychic scrape or emotional bruise can reverse years of progress.”

“I think I understand,” I replied.

“Do you?” Dr. Nablaum said. “If you truly do, then you understand how Anna Worth suffered at the hands of that yellow journalist—that, that scandalmonger, Timothy Brennan!”

I was a little taken aback by Dr. Nablaum’s passion. Maybe I should be considering him a suspect.

Not likely, Jack said. He’s steamed, all right, but I don’t make him for the killer. Or Anna. I’ve been eavesdropping on them since they toddled in. What you see is what you get—a frail frail and a low-rent head doctor who’s found his golden goose.

“Sad,” I thought.

Yeah, this broad’s a bundle of nerve endings. You can’t tell me she had the cool to poison Brennan and then remain calm when your local cops showed up asking questions. And that’s not even counting the fact that her doctor is a solid alibi.

I considered Jack’s logic. “Okay,” I thought, “maybe she didn’t do it. Maybe she hired someone. She has the money.”

Then why show up in the store on the night of the murder? Why implicate herself?

Maybe she wanted to witness the death with her own eyes.

Then why return to the scene and risk raising red flags?

“I guess you have a point,” I silently admitted.

Meanwhile, the doctor was going on about Anna’s condition. “Every time Anna made progress, a new article dredging up her past and opening old wounds would appear. Months of progress would fall away as poor Anna would sink again.”

“I see,” I said.

“All Anna wanted to do was unburden herself. Tell Brennan how he harmed her, and how she forgives him.”

“It’s part of my twelve-step program,” she said, gazing at Dr. Nablaum with something akin to awe.

I bit the inside of my cheek. The way she’d said “twelve-step program” so seriously and so reverently, I got the impression she’d never heard of it before she hooked up with Dr. Nablaum. I wondered in passing what he was charging her.

More than he’s worth.

Dr. Nablaum gazed at the heiress with eyes full of compassion. “For Anna, there can be no closure now.”

“That’s right,” said Anna. “Now I can never say the things I need to say to Timothy Brennan.”

Tell her to say it anyway, Jack said. Take it from me, the dead can hear.

I told Anna what Jack said (not mentioning, of course, that the advice actually came from a dead guy). Anna and her doctor considered my suggestion.

“Take all the time you need,” I said, pointing to the community events space. There, the carved oak podium still stood—a good enough stand-in for Brennan, I figured, since I was fairly certain that Jack was the only spirit haunting the bookstore.

I returned to the counter, where Seymour and Sadie looked at me expectantly. Before I could say a word, Fiona Finch burst through the door and hurried up to the counter.

“The State Police have been at my inn for the past two hours,” she declared.