The Ghost and Mrs. McClure

Two weeks later, after Spencer finished second grade at the expensive private school Calvin and his family had insisted he attend (with a faculty so pompous and intimidating I practically needed one of Calvin’s Valiums to get through Parents’ Night), I moved us out of the posh McClure-owned penitentiary on Manhattan’s Upper East Side and into my aunt’s humble walk-up. Now, at least, I could raise my son in peace—that is, without the thinly veiled financial threats of my in-laws.

My own income, working at a publishing house, had been modest, and Calvin had never worked—his income having been supplied by his wealthy mother. So the life insurance money was practically all I had now.

Apart from my young son’s trust fund, which I was legally forbidden to touch, no inheritance or any “financial aid” would come my way unless I agreed to remain under the thumb of the McClures and their opinions, which actually included the idea of an English boarding school for my little boy.

(Excuse me? Not now. Not ever.)

So I’d shocked them all by packing up and moving beyond their hypercritical gazes. Now I was a full-fledged co-owner of my own failing business. And I was determined to remake it from top to bottom.

To Sadie’s credit, from the day I’d arrived, she stood back and let me. Buy the Book hadn’t even been the original name of the place. Personally, I’d liked the old Thornton’s sign, which stated in that unadorned, pragmatic way of the 1940s: We Buy and Sell Books. But the past was dead, and our future depended on recognizing this.

“If we’re going to attract those book-buying urban dwellers with wads of disposable income,” I’d explained to my aunt, “we’ve got to have a name that’s postmodern.”

“What do you mean? Something cutesy? Like Book-ends?”

“No. Something more deliberately ironic and self-aware. Remember, the elite, ubereducated generation of today disdains literal plain speaking. We must find a name that has a double meaning.”

“Double meaning?”

“Something slick and smart aleck-esque, you know? Something a precocious kid might think was funny.”

Aunt Sadie nodded. “In that case, let’s ask Spencer.”

So I called up to my bright little boy.

“Yes? What do you want?” Spencer yelled from the upstairs window with the perfect diction of a privately schooled New York child.

“Come down and help us rename the store,” said Sadie.

“But Sergeant Friday’s getting ready to book the bad guy!”

“Well, dear, after the man is cuffed, come on down!”

From the day we’d moved in with Sadie, Spence wanted to do little more than watch old cop shows on Sadie’s new digital cable and stroke the marmalade-striped kitten she’d given him.

I loved the kitten, but I was worried about his watching so much television. On the other hand, Spence was still adjusting to a lot, so I saw no harm in indulging him a little—although this cop show obsession was truly peculiar. I couldn’t recall Spence ever having such an interest.

Then again, how would I have known? Calvin had refused to allow a television in any room of our apartment—he claimed it stressed his nerves, but then almost everything did, including Spencer himself.

You know the pathetic truth? The truth I’d never admit to anyone? Calvin Spencer McClure III had been a lousy father. But he’d been the only father Spence had known, and Spence missed him.

So when Spence came downstairs, the three of us brainstormed.

“ ‘Booked’ . . . ‘You’re Booked’ . . . ‘Central Booking’ . . .” I threw out, because our store specialized in mysteries.

“Why not just ‘By the Book’?” suggested Spencer, who’d just heard the phrase on Dragnet.

“That’s it! That’s perfect!” I said. “Only we’ll spell it ‘B-u-y.’ ”

“ ‘Buy the Book.’ ” Sadie shrugged. “Okay, whatever you think will help business, dear. But don’t help it too much. This town’s got parking problems, you know.”

(What Sadie actually said was “pahkin’ problems.” The “Roe Dyelin” accent is sometimes light, sometimes heavy, but pretty much incomprehensible when written out on paper. Car, pocket, pasta, meatballs, letter, chowder, and Europe would sound more like cah, parkit, pahster, meatbowls, letta, chowda, and Yerp. You’ll just have to trust me going with the conventional spellings on this one.)

So anyway, the hip new name on a hip new sign went up on the shop and the rest of the life insurance money went into a new beveled glass door, front window, and awning. Out went the ancient fluorescent ceiling fixtures and old metal shelves. In their place I put track lighting, an eclectic array of antique floor and table lamps, and oak bookcases.

I restored the chestnut-stained wood plank floor, and throughout the stacks, I scattered overstuffed armchairs and Shaker-style rockers to give customers the feeling of browsing through a New Englander’s private library.

Finally, I overhauled the inventory, keeping the store’s original rare book business but adding plenty of mysteries along with some New England travel guides and Yankee cookbooks.

I had hoped the BMWs, Jaguars, and Mercedes rocketing through Quindicott for gas fill-ups on their way to the resort towns of Cape Cod or Newport would pause to check out the “quaint”-looking mystery-themed bookshop. But they hadn’t.

Sadly, the years of economic booms and busts had taken their toll on “Old Q,” and many of the shops on Cranberry had become run down, not just our bookstore.

Empty storefronts didn’t help, either, and we had one right next door. People had taken to calling it “cursed,” not only for hosting the most “going out of business” sales in Quindicott, but also for being “haunted.” (Ridiculous, of course.)

Not yet ready to lie down and die, I decided what we needed were some well-publicized book-related events and the space to stage them. So I mortgaged Buy the Book to purchase the so-called cursed storefront adjoining ours, expanding the bookstore to its original size for the first time in fifty years.

Now Buy the Book occupied the entire freestanding stone building at 122. And, lord, was I proud!

Okay, so it was a huge financial risk. “Like betting on the horsies,” to quote Sadie exactly. But we hit it big right out of the gate because, for some reason, the legendary Timothy Brennan had chosen our little Quindicott shop to kick off his big national book tour, promoting Shield of Justice, the latest novel in his famous series.

Tonight was the make-or-break moment for Buy the Book, and I was determined to see that it came off without a hitch.

I BENT DOWN to adjust Spencer’s blue-and-silver striped tie, which seemed just slightly off center. As I wiggled the knot, Spencer stared at the ceiling and let his hands fall to his sides like a tiny Wall Street rag doll. It reminded me of a remark he’d made last Christmas to one of his little friends in the lobby of our building while Calvin, Spencer, and I waited for a cab to Lincoln Center: “Once my mother starts with the fixing, resistance is futile.”

“Now, Spencer, remember what we talked about,” I said as gently as possible. I was feeling bad enough for making him put on the suit and come downstairs.

“I’ll behave, Mother. I told you already.”

“No tricks.”

“I told you ten times. I did not do anything to the chairs.”

“I know, honey. I just can’t explain it otherwise.”

“Well, I wish you wouldn’t go blaming me just because you don’t have a perp to fit your profile.”

My eyebrow rose. Maybe Spence was watching too many of those TV cop shows. Well, I thought, at least it’s a sign he might one day show some interest in our store.

With a sigh, I brushed his copper bangs, made a note that they were getting long again, and nodded. When I’d first come downstairs, after showering and changing, I had found all the chairs in the community events space