The Ghost and Mrs. McClure

“What next?” I silently asked.

Perps are all different, said Jack. And different things get under their skins. Degradation worked on Nazi officers when we had to break them during the war. We tore off their medals and insignias, stripped them of their uniforms—even their skivvies. Butt-naked, even storm troopers lose their swagger.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Jack, but I’m not ripping Shelby’s clothes off when she comes through the door.”

Too bad for me.

“Get on with it, Jack.”

Play off her prejudices. Judging from her treatment of you, Shelby pretty much thinks you’re a doormat—a dopey dime-store hick. So act like one. Play the dull sap and she’ll get blabby, thinking it won’t matter ’cause you’re just a dump chump waiting for the bump.

“Huh?”

Forget it.

Actually, Jack’s words—the part before dump, chump, and bump, anyway—did make sense. Burying one’s light under a bushel was the biblical phrase. It was the tactic I used during those difficult years in New York City—at the office and in my marriage: unquestioning deference to authority allowing conniving competitors and in-laws to take their worst sniping slices out of my flesh without saying a word back. That was me, all right. I told myself it was the right thing to do, the best way to evade the ugliness of confrontation, and to avoid bruising the fragile egos of my superiors, my husband, and my in-laws. I never set out to become a doormat in the process. But obviously I had.

Keep things in balance, doll, Jack said, breaking into my thoughts. Doormats don’t raise a kid solo, and they don’t take risks to save a relative’s failing business. You’re no bum taking a dive. You got the will, all right, and the heart, you just never had the means—or more like the meanness.

I wanted to reply, but Shelby Cabot was suddenly in front of me, just beyond the pane, her features pinched and pale under newly applied makeup, her short, raven hair scraped back into a tight ponytail. I opened the door and held it. She pushed past me fast, her eyes avoiding mine.

The door closed and I turned. Shelby stripped off her raincoat and draped it over a display. Under the Burberry, she wore dark tailored slacks and a cashmere sweater.

“Now Mrs. McClure,” she said. “I’m here. Whatever is this about?”

Shelby Cabot’s condescending tone made me want to shrink away under the counter, but I thought of my son and put on the mask.

“I’m so glad you came tonight, Shelby . . . may I call you Shelby? Good. And you can call me Pen. That’s what my friends call me, and I do consider us friends.”

Shelby’s brow furrowed. Good. She was obviously hoping to intimidate me, aiming to take control through her superior demeanor. My sudden shift to cheerful, friendly friend seemed to throw her off balance.

Now get going with the dumb hick act, advised Jack. Really start yammering. Talk her ear off, but don’t give her a chance to peep until she’s practically itching to shoot off her mouth, too.

“I just didn’t know what to do at first,” I babbled. “I found this strange thing, and I didn’t know what it meant or where it came from! Then I was watching the news with my aunt—you know my aunt, Sadie—and I saw the most disturbing thing . . .”

My words came faster than the side-effects list on a commercial for prescription antidepressants. And Shelby Cabot’s head was bobbing like a dashboard puppy’s.

“I saw that Mrs. Franken had been arrested by the police for killing her father!” I continued. “You did hear that, didn’t you? Well, that’s such a strange thing to happen in a town like this, and what I found was strange, too, so I thought maybe because both things were so . . . so—”

“Strange.”

“Yes—strange—that maybe these two things were somehow connected. And then there was that hit-and- run—”

Shelby’s eyebrow went up. “Hit-and-run?”

“Right here in front of the store. But that couldn’t really be connected with anything, now, could it?”

“I suppose not, Mrs. McClure. You said—”

“I found a strange thing? I most certainly did!”

“Where is it, then?” Shelby asked, her tone impatient.

“Where’s what?” I asked blankly.

Pouring on the syrup a little thick, doll.

“Oh, you mean that thing!” I exclaimed. “Well, I guess I thought it best to leave it where I found it. . . .”

As my voice trailed off, I watched Shelby carefully.

You do scatterbrained swell, said Jack. Just like Gracie Allen.

I wasn’t quite sure whether to take that as a compliment.

After a moment, Shelby squinted at me, as if she couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or disgusted. Then with the flourish of a woman completely confident in her superiority, she turned on her heel and swiftly walked back to the community events space, straight to the women’s room.

Jackpot, baby. She’s going for it.

I followed right behind. “I mean it was such a strange thing. So very strange!” Now I was Doris Day. “A strange, strange thing . . .”

Shelby charged right into the bathroom. I entered, too, squinting against the fluorescent glare. Without hesitating, she went right for the paper towel dispenser anchored to the wall. She popped open the cover and reached inside, behind the large roll. She felt around for a moment but came up empty.

Bingo, said Jack. That’s exactly where Josh Bernstein found the syringe.

“Oh,” I said, wringing my hands. “Silly me. You’re looking for it there. I moved it the other day. Put it in a safe place.”

“But I thought—”

Before Shelby could say another word, I spun on my heels and rushed out of the women’s room, my nerves shaking as I raced through the large community events space and toward the register counter.

“Safe place!” I called. “Right over here!”

I exhaled with relief when I’d finally made it to the designated spot. Shelby took the bait. She was right on my heels.

“Where did you put the syringe, Penelope?” she said. Her voice was no longer arrogant. It was low and harsh. Ugly. Threatening.

I turned to face her, my hands no longer flapping, my tone no longer flighty. I forced my gaze to lock evenly with hers.

“Why Shelby, I never said it was a syringe.”

Shelby blinked. Her confident mask faltered. I took a step toward her. She backed away.

“How many bottles did you contaminate with the nut extract?” I asked. “One or two? Or all of them?”

Shelby took another step back. Then she raised her chin and looked down her nose at me.

“Enough,” she replied. “I almost laughed out loud when you personally handed him one of the tainted bottles.” Then Shelby frowned, her eyes distant. “But I used a little too much peanut oil, I’m afraid. Salient House lost a very profitable author. But then, they were going to lose him anyway.”

You nailed her, kid, now keep her yammering, get her to finger lover boy. Confess to being in on Josh’s murder.

Shelby looked at me. “You probably won’t believe this, but I didn’t mean to kill Timothy Brennan. I only wanted to make him sick, too sick to make his asinine announcement—”

“About dropping the Shield series?”