The Ghost and the Dead Deb

I shall tell you a great secret, my friend. Do not wait for the last judgment. It takes place every day.

—Albert Camus

BEFORE I’D REACHED Buy the Book’s front door, Johnny Napp was already through it, running outside. Dana Wu bolted after him, with me on her heels and Aunt Sadie and Mina on mine.

Outside, in the middle of the otherwise desolate street, Angel Stark lay sprawled on the concrete, the gauzy skirt of her Betsy Johnson neon-green and hot-pink sundress fluttering in the night like a downtown distress signal. In his baggy blue jeans and black T-shirt, Johnny Napp knelt over her. But Angel wasn’t moving, and I feared the worst—until she began spewing an outraged string of obscenities.

Obviously, the girl wasn’t dead.

Dana raced into the street and to her client. But the elementary school crossing guard programmed into my head through years of motherhood made me pause and check for traffic before stepping off the sidewalk. All eyes were on Angel, but when I turned my head, I spied a car careening up Quindicott’s main street, its scarlet taillights receding in the distance.

The sedan was a black Jaguar. Unfortunately, with only Cranberry Street’s brand new faux-Victorian streetlights as illumination, and because I’ve read far too many novels late into the night, my eyes weren’t up to deciphering the license plate, though I did notice a white and blue bumper sticker of some kind—but on the left side of the trunk, not the chrome bumper, where one would expect such a sticker.

“Son of a bitch!” Angel Stark yelled as the vehicle vanished around a corner. I turned to find Johnny Napp and Dana trying to help Angel to her feet. Pale and out of breath, Angel had lost one of her shoes, which gentleman Johnny quickly retrieved, and her corset-bodiced sundress was disheveled and dirty. Otherwise, Angel Stark did not seem any worse for wear, though her face was florid and her classic features folded into an angry scowl.

I was still on the sidewalk as Mina and Sadie caught up to me.

“Oh, my,” Aunt Sadie muttered, and I noticed she was wringing her hands now. But as I’ve tried to tell her many times before, bookselling is murder these days.

“Damn it! Is everybody in this cracker burg a critic?” Angel yelled, pushing her hair back and tugging on her pump.

Dana reached for Angel’s arm. “Let’s get off the street. Get you inside—” But Angel Stark fended her off.

“I’m fine. I can walk!” Angel insisted, even as she grasped Johnny Napp’s muscular, barbwire-tattooed bicep for support. In fact, once her shoe was in place, Angel wrapped both of her shapely, health club-toned arms around his waist.

I glanced back at Mina. In the soft night breeze, her flyaway brown hair was dancing about her freckled face. Her brown eyes were flaring, her expression pained.

“What happened?” Aunt Sadie whispered.

“I think someone tried to run Angel down,” I replied. “I saw a car—”

Dana Wu whirled and faced her client. “Is that what happened?”

“No! God no,” Angel replied, too quickly. “It was just some low-rent asshole who made a rude comment about my book. I guess I should be used to cheap shots by now, but I’m tired, and it really pissed me off!”

Angel screamed the last few words in the direction of the Jag, now long gone.

I wondered what sort of “low-rent asshole” drove a hundred thousand dollar car. Clearly Dana Wu wasn’t satisfied with the author’s characterization of the incident, either.

“Listen to me, Angel,” Dana said, grabbing Angel’s shoulders. “You have to be straight with me, kiddo. Tell me exactly what happened.”

Angel stepped back, then ran her fingers through her long, copper hair. Finally, she turned away from us and, with both hands, adjusted the corset-laced bodice of her dress, nearly exposing her breasts. After that she leaned against Johnny for support—which seemed rather odd to me because, a moment ago, Angel was strong enough to stand on her own two feet—and screamed bloody murder.

“What happened, Angel?” Dana asked again.

“It was like I said,” Angel replied, calmer now—and more guarded. “Some creep pulled up in a car, rolled down the window, and told me my books suck. I grabbed the door handle and told the jerk to come out of the car and say that again because I had a few things to say back, and the driver took off—I lost my balance and fell facedown in the street.”

“Man or woman?” Dana’s eyes were hard as she asked the question.

Angel dodged the woman’s eyes, suddenly busy brushing the dirt off her filmy skirt. “What difference does it make?”

After a long silence, I spoke to Dana. “Maybe you should report the incident to the police? Ms. Stark is a celebrity, and this could be a stalker incident, and we all know stalkers can be dangerous. At the very least Angel should file a police report in case it happens again.”

It was an intelligent and logical response—and exactly the wrong thing to say.

“No way!” Angel blasted. “Don’t you get it? I’m the one exposing the incompetence of how their brothers in blue over the next hill completely botched Bethany’s murder investigation.” Angel vehemently shook her head. “No police. No way.”

To my surprise, Dana Wu agreed.

“Angel’s right. This is too close to where it all happened. In my opinion, Angel’s got no friends among the local authorities. And nobody wants this story to turn up in the newspapers.”

Something in me expected to hear Jack’s voice at that moment saying, Hmm, apparently not all publicity is good publicity, all of a sudden. I reached out with my thoughts anyway. “Jack?”

But the ghost was nowhere near me now, because I had stepped beyond the fieldstone walls of my bookstore. Why had Jack’s spirit been imprisoned inside the store since his death? I had my theories, but I still didn’t have any real clues.

Suddenly, to everyone’s surprise, Angel Stark did not return to the store. Instead, she slumped down on the curb next to a battered rust-red pickup truck with “Bud Napp’s Hardware” emblazoned in black on the side panels.

“I still need that smoke,” Angel announced. “Then I’m going back to that lace-doily inn up the street and shutting down for the night.”

As she spoke, Angel produced a thin brown cigarette from a hidden pocket, then fumbled for something to light it with. There was an embarrassing pause, for none of us smoked.

A sudden toot from the car alarm sounded as Johnny unlocked the cab of his uncle’s Napp Hardware pickup truck and reached into the glove compartment to retrieve a Ronson lighter, which he opened with a snap.

“Thanks,” Angel said as she took a drag.

Johnny looked ready to walk away when Angel smiled from the curb and touched his hand. “Hey, I want to talk to you . . . Thank you for what you did out there.”

Standing in the shadows, Mina watched as Johnny hesitated for a moment, then crouched down in front of Angel.

Aunt Sadie saw the hurt look on Mina’s face and nudged the girl’s shoulder. “Shouldn’t you take care of your boyfriend?”

Frowning, Mina called, “Hey, Johnny. Are you coming?”

Johnny turned. “It’s okay, Mina. Go on back in and finish your shift. I’ll hook up with you later, like we planned.”

Her eyes narrowing, her hurt turning to anger, Mina spun and marched back inside.

Dana took my arm. “I think the show is finally over for tonight.” Politely but firmly, Dana pushed Aunt Sadie and me back into the store, too.

Sadie moved behind the counter, while Mina headed back to the events room. After that, the rest of the evening was a blur. Dana gave me the heads up about some of the hot author tours she knew would be barreling down the tracks, but had not yet been announced.