The Ghost and Mrs. McClure

“You can’t prove anything!” she cried. “Even if you have the syringe. Why would I kill Brennan, anyway? What possible motive could I have? I’m not the one profiting from Brennan’s death—you are. You’re the one who handed Brennan the tainted bottle, a moment that was caught on tape, by the way. Have you seen CNN lately? If I were the police, it’s you I would arrest.”

“But you’re the one who knew how particular Brennan was about his appearances, so you didn’t return my calls on purpose—to make sure there’d be chaos when you all arrived. It was you who set aside those tainted bottles and you who told Deirdre to inform the rest of us, so you wouldn’t be implicated,” I said when her tirade ended. “Of course, nobody will believe anything Deirdre says, given what she’s charged with. But surely Kenneth suspects you. He might even go to the police himself.”

“There’s where you’re dead wrong. I know Kenneth. He’s a brilliant, attractive man, but he’s far too idealistic. Too wrapped up in ‘doing the right thing’ to see that getting Brennan out of the way is the right thing. So I didn’t involve him. Oh, he had his suspicions, even started questioning me that night he followed me to your store. But I denied having anything to do with Brennan’s death, and he believed me. He knows nothing, Mrs. McClure. But even if he did have his suspicions, he would never tell anyone. Not after all I’ve done for him.”

“All you’ve done,” I said. “Oh, that’s right. You made a few phone calls. And then, of course, you tried to wreck his marriage. Can’t forget that one. And now you want to make him an unwilling beneficiary to a murdered father-in-law and a wife who’s about to become a convicted killer. A wife he clearly still loves and has chosen to stick by.”

I wasn’t very good at condescension, but I was learning.

Shelby’s face became a primitive mask of harsh lines and dark shadows. “I warn you, Mrs. McClure. In games like the one you want to play with me, I play to win. And I play rough. I noticed you have a little boy. Accidents happen to little boys all the time.”

Steady, Penelope. Steady.

My fists were clenched so hard I felt my fingernails breaking the skin of my palms.

“And if you plan to tell anyone about our conversation,” Shelby continued, “it’s your word against mine.”

“And mine,” said a male voice. It echoed through the room so loudly Shelby let out a startled scream.

Officer Eddie Franzetti stepped out into the open. He’d been listening to our entire conversation from behind the life-size Timothy Brennan standee. Slowly Eddie lifted his hand to reveal his police radio.

“I alerted Chief Ciders to the frequency,” he informed Shelby. “There’s a recorder running at the other end of the line, and one right here in my hand, too. And if I know my dispatcher, there are at least seven more of us “hicksville” policemen listening in on bands all over Quindicott. Just in case my own testimony isn’t good enough.”

For the past fifteen minutes, I’d been carefully tearing strips from Shelby’s perfect little corporate girl mask. Now the remaining tatters had been ripped completely away.

Tonight, it was only Eddie and I and a few small-town cops who saw her for the monster she really was. But the whole world was going to see it soon. And that realization sent Shelby over the edge.

“You bitch!” she screamed, lunging for my throat. “You set me up!”

The force of her charge sent us both flying, right into Eddie, who tumbled backward, over a nearby chair. Penguin editions of Conan Doyle rained down on me as I heard Eddie’s head crack into some shelves.

Shelby’s fists began punching at my face and torso. I tried to hide my head in my hands, but it wasn’t working.

Fight, dollface. Fight!

I drew up my knee, driving it into her belly. When she recoiled, I positioned my feet and kicked with all my strength.

Shelby soared away, crashing backward against the long counter. I didn’t see it right away, but her fingers closed on a razor-sharp weapon—the box cutter I’d used to rip open the last carton of Brennan hardcovers.

As I struggled to my feet, I glanced toward Eddie, but he was out cold. Then I saw Shelby, waving the blade in front of her.

I don’t know what in the world got into me, but I suddenly heard myself screaming, “Another bitch who wants a piece of me! No freaking way!”

Then I launched myself. The ferocity of it must have momentarily stunned Shelby because she froze in place. My foot kicked out, connecting with the wrist holding the blade, and her arm flew back. But she reacted instantly, swinging the other arm down, and her balled-up hand connected with the side of my head, sending me into the counter.

As I felt a blow against my back, my hand touched the edge of something resting on the ledge. I blindly grabbed the object. Securing it in both hands, I whipped around, swinging it at my attacker’s head with every blessed ounce of wrath I could muster. With a loud crack, it connected, and Shelby Cabot crumbled like the yellowed edges of a cheap paperback.

I stumbled, suddenly weak. Gasping, I leaned against the counter to steady myself. Down the aisle, I heard a groan. Officer Franzetti slowly struggled to his feet. He shook his head clear, then rubbed the back of it. No doubt there was a bump the size of a grapefruit forming—just like mine.

I watched him hobble over on what looked like a badly sprained ankle. We both looked down at the woman on the ground, then at the book I had clutched in my hand. When he read the title, Eddie burst out laughing.

It seems I’d smacked Shelby down with one of the last copies of Shield of Justice —the book Shelby had been employed to publicize, and the very copy I had gotten out as my gift to Eddie.

“Good choice,” said Eddie, “although don’t you think Crime and Punishment would have been more appropriate?”

“And heavier,” I agreed. “Of course, I didn’t have much time to make my selection. Maybe next time.”

Sirens wailed down Cranberry Street and revolving flashes streaked through the picture window, painting the back wall of the store in red and white light.

“I’m glad it’s over,” I said, massaging my aching back. “Thanks, Eddie.”

“No problem,” he said. “And hey, now that you’re not in trouble anymore, I think I’ll have time to read that Jack Shield book.”

I handed it to him. Then I closed my eyes and silently thanked the original model.

Don’t be modest, babe. You did the hard part all by yourself.

Rubbing his ankle, Eddie looked down at our knocked-cold murderer. “What the hell,” he told me with a shrug as four Quindicott patrolmen burst through the front door, “at least we can honestly tell the Staties we did it by the book.”

EPILOGUE

Usually female detectives are not favorites with men readers.

—“The Editor,” Crime Busters magazine, December 1938

FOUR WEEKS LATER, October came to New England.

I don’t fully understand how the cool kiss of fall sets fire to summer’s green, but every year, without fail, the foliage around Quindicott burns in hues of gold, scarlet, and amber, just as it does all over our state. And, every year, thousands of tourists drive north from the cities to gaze at this momentous event—primarily because it transforms Rhode Island’s woods just a little bit earlier than New York’s, New Jersey’s, and Pennsylvania’s.

After everything I’d gone through with Calvin, Shelby, and Jack, I found that, like the leaves, I had changed, too. I was no longer green. On that brisk fall evening when I saw Kenneth and Deirdre Franken again, I was totally prepared to handle the store’s scheduled event. I’d helped seat the packed crowd in the Buy the Book community events space. And I’d appointed Seymour Tarnish to guard the front door, where he could express his sincere regrets as he turned away latecomers.

“The sign says occupancy by more than two hundred and fifty people is against the law!” I heard Seymour