The Ghost and Mrs. McClure

“My God!” Sadie cried. “Whatever for?”

“A Criminal Investigation Unit showed up with a warrant. They searched the Frankens’ guest room from top to bottom. Then two detectives arrested Deirdre Franken for the murder of her father!”

CHAPTER 18

To Quibble or Not to Quibble

I dislike arguments of any kind. They are always vulgar, and often convincing.

—Oscar Wilde

“OKAY, FOLKS, I think everyone’s here who’s gonna be. Let’s get started.”

In so many words, Bud Napp called to order the emergency meeting of the Quindicott Business Owners’ Association—or, as Sadie and I liked to call it, the Quibble Over Anything gang.

It was Sunday night, the store was closed, and the group of us were seated on the circle of padded folding chairs I’d set up in the community events space.

“Can we dispense with the roll call tonight?” Fiona Finch asked.

“I’m sorry, Fiona,” said Professor J. Brainert Parker, “but as this association’s secretary, it’s my duty to take accurate minutes.”

“Then mark me down as present and let’s get on with it,” said Bud.

“Cranberry Street Hardware is represented,” said Brainert, typing away on his laptop.

“And me,” said Fiona Finch with an annoyed sigh.

“Finch’s Inn,” said Brainert. “That notorious den of iniquity that spawned today’s raid by the federales.”

“Not funny,” Fiona huffed.

“Cooper Family Bakery,” said Milner.

“Sorry about the Oreos, everyone,” Linda blurted.

Milner turned to his wife. “I already explained we were out of baked goods.”

“I know, Mil. But Oreos?”

“What’s wrong with Oreos?” said Milner defensively. “Everyone likes Oreos.”

“You could have at least bought Entenmann’s,” she told him. “Or even Pepperidge Farms.”

“Everyone likes Oreos,” repeated Milner. He turned to the group. “Don’t you all like Oreos?”

Everyone generally stared a moment. Scattershot nods followed.

Brainert cleared his throat. “Let’s stay on topic, shall we?”

Sadie rolled her eyes. “Didja type in Buy the Book?” she asked. “I mean, since you’re sitting in it.”

“Yes, of course,” said Brainert testily. “And my own business concern has been logged as well.”

Brainert was one of four investors who, about eleven months back, had bought the old two-screen Movie Town Theater at the end of Cranberry Street. The place had been closed for years, and its ripped seats, filthy floor, and cracked candy counter had long been in dire need of repair. No bank would lend them the money to refurbish, so the renovations were slow-going.

“Not present are Colleen’s Beauty Shop, Sam’s Seafood Shack, Franzetti’s Pizza Place, Koh’s Grocery, and —”

“I chatted with everyone else today,” said Bud. “Consider me their proxy.”

“Hey, there, I made it!” called a voice from the door.

“Oh, hey, Seymour, come on in,” said Sadie.

“There’s our big winner,” teased Bud. “And I thought celebrities like you were too busy on weekends to bother with us little people.”

“Wouldn’t miss it, Bud! Besides, I’m out of ice cream.”

On evenings and weekends, Seymour liked to drive an ice cream truck around Old Q. He’d purchased it with part of his big winnings on Jeopardy the year before. Apparently it had always been his dream to become an ice cream man, or so he said. Go figure.

“I parked the empty truck outside,” Seymour said. “Not for nothing, but I never ran out of cones and dishes before! And that horde at the bookstore this morning? What a crazy day!”

“Thanks again for your help earlier,” I told him. “You really saved our hides.”

“Oh, my, yes,” said Aunt Sadie. “And you get the next four pulps for free.”

“Let’s get on with it, shall we?” said Bud.

“ ’Bout time,” said Fiona. “That all right with you, Brainert?”

“I don’t appreciate your tone, Fiona.”

“What tone?”

“You know what tone.”

“I didn’t use any tone.”

“Enough!” cried Sadie. “Get to the emergency issue, please.”

“Parking,” said Bud.

(Actually, what Bud said was “pahkin’ ”—his pronunciations displaying the dropped R’s and drawn-out vowels typical of many Rhode Islanders. But, as I noted much earlier, I’m sticking with the conventional spellings!)

“Parking!” repeated Fiona. “That’s what I’m talking about! Today I had cars jamming my parking lot that don’t belong there. Rev. Waterman had to post guards to see that there was no illegal parking in the church lot. Why, even the Embry land was vandalized—”

“I think ‘appropriated’ is a better term,” interjected Brainert.

“Right on,” said Bud Napp.

“Really,” sniffed Fiona. “Someone tore down the fence. No matter how you feel, that’s no way to solve the town’s parking problem! We’re here to find a solution, aren’t we?”

Aunt Sadie rose. “Look,” she said, “we don’t expect an author to be murdered in our store every other weekend. Nor do we expect to make national headlines and the news networks. This whole incident is going to blow over in the next few days, and then Quindicott can happily fall back into the coma from which it will most likely never emerge.”

“Not if you’re cagey, Sadie,” said Seymour. “There are ways to exploit this incident, draw it out, make it pay long-term. Like the arrest today—of Brennan’s daughter. That means more headlines, which means the crowds will be back here again tomorrow, not to mention the television cameras. That’s our chance to make the first move. . . .”

Everyone leaned forward with anticipation, waiting for Seymour to continue. In truth, Seymour had always had far-fetched ideas. But now, with the Jeopardy win, people actually took him seriously.

“Let’s look at the facts,” he said. “Firstly, the real Jack Shepard vanished in Quindicott decades ago. Secondly, the author of Jack Shepard’s fictional adventures drops dead in the very same town—probably on the very same premises. Now, that’s a Stephen King story.”

Brainert frowned. “Except King isn’t writing anymore.”

“That’s not my point,” said Seymour.

“Then what is?” asked Brainert.

“Here’s a story Sadie and Penelope could sell to Hollywood as Buy the Book: The True Story. That’ll keep this town on the map for years to come. Heck, those Hollywood types might even come here to film it.”

Silence followed. Sadie and I glanced nervously at each other in a sort of “Is he joking?” way.

Brainert cleared his throat. “While Seymour’s idea is . . . interesting, I’m not sure what it has to do with parking.”

“It has nothing to do with parking,” Bud Napp said, rising. “But who cares? A murder involving a best-selling