The Ghost and Mrs. McClure

mood. I moved into the store and reached behind the counter. With a sharp box cutter, I opened the very last of the twenty boxes and held the book out to Eddie. But he didn’t take it. Instead, he took off his hat and looked down at the floor.

“I knew you lied to me, Pen,” he said in a whisper. “You said you didn’t recognize that corpse. But I could see in your face that you did.”

I nodded. There was no use denying it now.

“I figured you had your reasons, so I gave you a little time. But we still haven’t I.D.’d him, so I had to come back.” Eddie lifted his head and his eyes met mine. “Who was it, Pen? And why didn’t you tell me his name?”

“His name was Josh Bernstein. He was a publicity assistant with Salient House. And his death was no accident,” I replied.

“You should have told me, Pen. Lying just makes it worse. Chief Ciders is already fit to be tied that we haven’t caught the driver yet.”

That sounded like Ciders, all right. I remembered how angry he’d looked when he finally got to the scene of the hit-and-run. He’d come straight from Embry’s lot, where Zeb’s stolen truck had been recovered. He still had the lot’s brick-red mud on his boots.

“I’m sorry, Eddie. I didn’t want to tell you it was Josh because I needed some time to think. I just didn’t want the police talking to Shelby Cabot. Not yet, anyway. Something’s going on. Something I can’t explain.”

Eddie shook his head again. His face was so grim I was really starting to worry. “Eddie? Is there something else on your mind?”

“I shouldn’t say anything,” he said. “I could get in a lot of trouble. But your brother Pete was one of my best friends. And your dad. He was the one who encouraged me, you know? Said I could become a cop like him, introduced me to the chief back when Ciders was still a patrolman.”

“I know.”

“They were good men, Pen. Both of them. God rest their souls.”

“Eddie? Come on. You’re scaring me. What’s this all about?”

“I got wind that the State Police are going to be coming by tomorrow. Deirdre was arrested for murdering her father, but they think she had an accomplice. And since you were the one who gave Brennan the bottle, and they got it on film . . . I’m really sorry, Pen, but you’re at the top of their list.”

“You’re kidding?” I rasped. My mouth had gone suddenly dry.

“Pen, just call a lawyer. Get some protection. I don’t know how far they’re going to go, but somebody really wants your hide. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. Is there anything I can do?”

I barely heard Eddie’s words. As my hand slowly set down the Shield of Justice book on the edge of the counter, I felt my body and mind go numb—except for one thought: My son. Spencer.

It’s time, Penelope, said the voice in my head. It’s time you learned how to fight.

“Okay,” I said out loud. “You’re on.”

CHAPTER 21

Booked

She thought most men were weak and trusted her brains to slide her through anything.

—Ed Exley on Lynn Bracken, L.A. Confidential by James Ellroy, 1990

I PUT THE call through to Shelby Cabot’s room at Finch’s Inn. After five rings, I heard Shelby fumble for the receiver and manage a tired “Hello?”

Double murder, it seems, can take a lot out of a gal.

“Ms. Cabot, this is Penelope Thornton-McClure.” My voice actually sounded steady despite the fist that would not stop squeezing my stomach. “I’m sorry to bother you, but something urgent has come up.”

“Mrs. . . . McClure?” Shelby said through a yawn. I could hear the rustle of Fiona’s silk sheets. “What time —”

“I found something in the store,” I said. “I believe it belongs to you.”

“I’m so sorry, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied, wide awake now. The woman’s condescending tone had regained consciousness as well, “I’m certainly not aware of losing anything. Describe it,” she snapped, “would you?”

Drop the bomb, Jack said in my head.

“It’s an item you left here on the night Timothy Brennan died. I’m sure it was what you came here to look for last night. You seemed so upset, and I did want to help you, but Mr. Franken arrived and—well, I’d wanted to speak to you privately.”

There was a long pause. Jack nudged me. Go on, doll, you’re doing fine.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said with feigned bafflement. “I must be mistaken. I wanted to help, you understand? But this medical item probably belongs to someone else. I feel so silly . . . I’m so sorry to have bothered you.”

“No, no, Mrs. McClure, I’m glad you called. As you know, I’m here to represent the interests of Salient House—and under the most unusual circumstances!”

Shelby was trying hard to sound cheerful. But even over a phone line, I could sense the strain. She let out a little laugh, but the edge of it seemed raw, like a section of scraped flesh with its nerve endings exposed.

“Timothy Brennan was one of our authors, a member of our publishing family. If this call involves the late Mr. Brennan or Salient House in any way, then I’ll be glad to come over and settle this matter right away.”

“Very good,” I said. “Shall we say fifteen minutes?”

“I . . . I may need more time. And I’d like to first ask you—”

Hang up fast, barked Jack.

“Fifteen and not a minute less or I’ll be closed.” I hung up before Shelby could make another peep.

Good job, babe. Now set the scene.

I did what Jack instructed, turning out all the store’s interior illumination except for the security lights and fire exit signs.

Drunk tanks, interrogation rooms, and jail cells are grim for a reason, Jack told me. Make this place dark as a dungeon. Pump some fright into her.

Nature was cooperating. Outside, the night was moonless, and leftover clouds from last night’s storm obstructed the usual burgeoning firmament. At this late hour on a Sunday, Cranberry Street was deserted, all the shop windows dark. I stood near the front door, peering through the glass. Behind me, the interior of Buy the Book seemed lost in a pall of shadows.

“Shelby wanted more time to dress,” I whispered very softly, so close to the glass my breath was making fog. “Why did you make me tell her fifteen minutes or not at all? What’s the point of rushing her?”

The time really doesn’t matter. What does is that you set this parley on your turf, on your terms, and at your convenience. You woke her up in the middle of the night—she’s disoriented, her judgment’s bad. Right now she’s stumbling down Cranberry Street, wondering why she’s out in the middle of the night in the first place.

She’s out there because you, Penelope, are pulling her strings like a puppetmaster. You’ve already taken control of the grilling session, and she hasn’t even arrived yet.

I blinked. What Jack said about “control” was pretty funny, considering I felt completely out of control right now. But I had to admit, his interrogation techniques impressed me. They were nothing like the stuff I usually saw on television cop shows, where good-cop/bad-cop was often the extent of the strategy. That game wouldn’t do me much good tonight. Sure, I could act the part of the marshmallow—but my hard-nosed counterpart was going to be out of sight if not completely missing in action.