The Ghost and Mrs. McClure

“Where are you?” I rasped in a loud whisper, unable to understand how the man had answered me when I hadn’t spoken a word.

Linda and Fiona looked at me with puzzled expressions.

“Where’s who?” asked Linda.

I shook my head. “Forget it,” I whispered.

“Jack Shepard and I were both working the mean streets,” Brennan continued. “Jack as a detective and me as a reporter. We were just regular guys walking a thin line between the world of respectability and the underworld of crime.”

HA!

I inhaled. Then exhaled. Joan of Arc heard voices, right? But they were probably nice, gentle, inspirational voices. Saintly voices.

I was the one walkin’ that thin line, ya drunken bum. You were the one rackin’ up debts at the track, bangin’ poor workin’ girls then callin’ the cops on them to get out of payin’, and drownin’ your tonsils in so much suds I’d have to pick you up off the taproom floor.

I closed my eyes and opened them again. This voice was certainly no saint. And it really wasn’t mine—at least not a voice from my conscious self. This left me with one conclusion: I was cracking up.

Get a grip, Penelope, I told myself. Refocus your attention!

As applause echoed off the walls, I concentrated on the crowd, scanning the mix of Quindicott townies, Providence professionals, and college kids, as well as Newport yacht-club and old-money types. All appeared entertained enough to shell out $27.50 each.

Then came the “no sale.”

Unlike every other enraptured member of the audience, the middle-aged blond standing at the back of the room in a cream-colored cashmere sweater with white fox trim appeared to be suffering through the speech, her delicate features sculpted into an anguished grimace.

I remembered she’d arrived late and brushed me off when I’d offered to find her a seat, asking instead for the rest room. Her face actually seemed familiar. Suddenly I placed it:

Anna Worth, the Newport cereal heiress.

Worth Flakes and Nuts had been the family’s claim to fame—it tasted somewhat like Wheaties but had nuts and dried fruit mixed in. Years ago she’d been involved in a scandal—typical eighties nightlife stuff, as I recalled, with shots fired at a boyfriend, a big publicized trial, and drug use afterward. It was odd to see her here in our little store, I thought—and not enjoying Brennan’s talk very much, either, from the look on her face.

“Folks always ask me what happened to Jack Shepard,” Brennan continued, “and I always had my stock answer: Jack Shepard let his weaknesses and, sorry to say, his stupidity get the better of him—”

Why you stinkin’, stealin’ son of a bitch! shouted the voice. The only thing that got the better of me was you—if you’re tellin’ me you swiped my case files instead of gettin’ off your lazy ass to look for me!

(Clearly, refocusing my attention hadn’t helped.)

“But it’s finally time to reveal the truth,” continued Brennan. Then he paused, taking time to look meaningfully into the camera. The audience seemed to collectively lean forward.

“In 1949, while Jack Shepard was working the case of a murdered army buddy, he vanished without a trace. Not even his body was found. For over fifty years now, I’ve wondered just what happened. Did the bad guys finally catch up with him? Did the corrupt authorities finally do Jack in? Or did someone set Jack up as a fall guy?”

Yeah, Tim-bo, ya smug-ass, tell them. I’d like to know myself.

“Shut up!” I rasped quietly to the voice in my mind, alarmed that I was losing my grip on reality. “Shut up! Shut up!”

Both Linda and Fiona again eyed me with concern. A few nearby guests even turned in their seats to deliver annoyed looks.

I felt the heat on my cheeks for the second time that night.

“Pen, are you okay?” Linda whispered. “Do you want to sit down?”

I shook my head.

“These questions will be answered in my next book,” Brennan said. “And my first nonfiction book. Ironic for an old reporter, eh? But the truth is”—Brennan paused to clear his throat—“for several years now I have been quietly investigating Jack’s final case and his mysterious disappearance, and the solution to the fifty-plus-years mystery is close to being solved.”

The audience clapped wildly. Brennan waved them down.

“Though Salient House and my fans have been clamoring for more Jack Shield mysteries, I am here to announce that Shield of Justice will be the very last novel of the series.”

Disappointed murmurs sounded. Brennan’s handsome son-in-law Kenneth rose from his seat in the front row and left the room. In the next seat, his well-dressed wife, Deirdre, watched him go with a clear look of distress on her plain face.

“It’s finally time to find out . . .”

As Brennan cleared his throat again, he pulled the throat spray Josh had bought and spritzed it into his mouth.

“It’s finally time to find out . . .”

Again he cleared his throat, and I realized with a start that what he really needed was some water. I reached behind me and let my fingers close on a plastic bottle resting on the refreshment table. With a quick twist, I unscrewed the cap, then stepped forward and set the bottle on the podium.

“About time,” Brennan griped low before I returned to my spot.

“As I was saying, it’s time to find out what happened to Jack Shepard and why, and to share that information with the world. My preliminary investigation shows that Jack Shepard’s movements in the final days before his disappearance led him to a rare-book shop right here in Quindicott. Yes. The last place Jack Shepard visited in 1949 was this very store!”

As outcries of delighted surprise rippled through the audience, I decided I was probably the most shocked person in the entire room. My eyes found Aunt Sadie, who was standing just inside the archway that led to the other side of the bookstore. She simply shrugged, as if she had no idea what all this was about.

Timothy Brennan seemed pleased with the reaction and took a long pause to chug the entire contents of the Sutter Spring water bottle. Then he opened his mouth to speak again. Suddenly his eyes bulged and his face grew very flushed. His lips moved, but only a hoarse croak emerged. The water bottle dropped from his stubby fingers, and Brennan reached up to clutch his throat.

I watched, horrified, as his jowly face turned scarlet, then paled.

“Mr. Brennan? What’s wrong?” cried someone seated close to him.

He pointed to his throat, then reached out to grasp the podium, as if to steady himself. But a moment later, both man and podium tumbled to the floor.

“Call a doctor!” someone shouted.

I pushed through the throng of panicked people, looked down, and saw Timothy Brennan, his face chalk, his mouth opening and closing as rapidly as it had all evening, but this time without sound, just a terrible rhythmic sucking noise like a plunger desperately trying to pull something out of a blocked drain.

“Get back, please!” I cried. “Give him room!”

The sea of gray suits and battered fedoras backed away to give the flailing author room. All except Shelby Cabot of Salient House and his daughter Deirdre in her burgundy suit. They both knelt over the gasping man, their expressions grim. Josh stood back, behind Shelby, watching with equally grim concern. Deirdre took Brennan’s hand.

The man’s features relaxed, and his chest rose as he took a deep breath. His color began to come back. Then his eyes fluttered open.

“I think he’s coming around,” said Deirdre.

Brennan’s eyes seemed to focus on the person standing right next to me—Milner Logan. With a terrified gasp,