The Ghost and the Dead Deb

And where was I during all of this?

Right there with him, trying to raise a young son whom Calvin took little interest in. Trying to deal with in- laws who refused to see Calvin as deeply troubled. Yes, right there with him . . . to absorb his verbal abuse and mood swings, to take it all because I told myself that my husband was ill and in need of help, right up to the day my hand turned the door knob to our bedroom, just in time to witness his attempt to fly—

Hey, baby. Wanna talk?

“Jack,” I whispered into the dark. “You there?”

I’m always here, sweetheart. Cosmic joke, remember? City slicker forced to spend eternity in cornpone alley.

I smiled. A year ago, I’d forbidden Jack to hang around in the upstairs ether. He told me I couldn’t lay down house rules to a man with no body. An uneasy truce followed. For the most part, he gave me my privacy upstairs, but occasionally, on nights like this one, he’d make his presence known.

Just remember this, Jack added. In the scheme of things, nobody’s got it as bad as yours truly. For me, this isn’t a bunch of gag lines.

“Well . . . look at the bright side,” I told him, fluffing the pillow behind me, “a Rhode Island bookstore in July really isn’t that bad. There are much hotter places you might have been sent.”

Hit me below the belt, why don’t ya?

A long minute of silence followed.

The room had cooled off with Jack’s arrival, but now I felt the summer’s cloying warmth seeping back into the bedroom air.

“Jack?” I silently called, sitting up. “I was just teasing.”

The silence was getting to me. “Jack, please answer. Don’t go.”

Has it ever occurred to you—because it has to me— that this is my eternal punishment?

“No,” I said falling back against the pillow again, “and do you know why? Because it’s beyond insulting.”

What?

“You’re suggesting the fire and brimstone of Satan’s inferno is less of a punishment than running an independent bookstore?”

Lead pipe cinch.

“You really can be infuriating, you know?”

Okay, so we’re back in Miss Prissland, are we?

“Can it, Jack.”

That’s better.

“I don’t want to fight.”

For once we agree.

I sighed.

So what’s eatin’ you?

“What Johnny did to Mina was pretty hard to witness,” I told him. “The kid obviously ran off with Angel tonight and left Mina high and dry. I always liked Johnny, but what he did tonight was pretty rotten. It makes me angry at Angel, too . . . but I’m also sorry for the girl. And furious about that Jag dragging her through the street and then taking off without a backward glance, and all because she dared tell the truth about her privileged circle of friends—one of whom likely committed murder during a party then tried to frame a member of the catering staff.

Yeah, like I told you earlier, the Banks girl knew her killer, all right. I don’t agree with your author on much—but I agree on that.

“Maybe you should read her book.”

You’re just determined to doom me to some sort of punishment while I’m here, aren’t you, dollface?

“I could tell you weren’t impressed with her reading.”

Theatrics do not impress me. Real detective work does. You want some true crime stories, try reading through some of my case files.

“I have, after a fashion. I’ve read all the Jack Shield novels, and Tim Brennan based all of them on your cases.”

That bloated barstool raconteur stole my files after I was shot to death in this damn store, but he barely touched the cases with the most juice. I noticed his son-in-law finally sent over my files for you to look at, but you haven’t gone through them yet.

“I will . . . I just haven’t had time . . .”

Sure, honey, sure . . .

“What’s that tone? You don’t believe me?”

No.

“Why?”

You don’t want to make the time—because you’re afraid.

“Of what?”

Of what you’ll find in those files. Things you’ll find out about me . . .

“Ridiculous.”

You’re a smart dame, sweetheart, but when it comes to people you care about, seems to me you’re more comfortable with your glasses off . . . and keeping those edges as blurry as possible for as long as possible . . .

“Don’t be insulting.”

Don’t be naive. You did it with that worthless late husband of yours—

“Don’t, Jack.”

A long silence followed.

“What is it you think I should know?”

Your little Angel’s act with Johnny Napp tonight reminds me of a case I took back in ’46, after the war. I couldn’t go back to being a cop—leg wound left me with a slight limp on bad days—so I set out a shingle as a licensed P.I.

“What was the case?”

Vassar grad in her mid-twenties comes in on a Friday at six, looking to hire me to save her life from a blackmailer she claimed already gave her sis the big chill. Class clash. He was an indoor aviator—

“A what?”

Elevator operator. And she was the well-heeled uptown type. There’s a special kind of velvet- lined skirt gets bored with the expensive fabrics, likes to look for something a little rougher against the skin. Not for long, but for a while. That’s my guess on your Angel going after the Johnny kid.

The trouble comes when the little lady’s ready to toss away the rough goods. Not always easy. Cheap goods too often leave a stain when you rub them the wrong way.

“Johnny’s usually a nice kid. I don’t think he’d actually hurt anyone.”

“You hardly know him, doll. And from what you’ve told me, he’s already hurt that tall, freckled thing, Mina—”

“He hurt her emotionally, I’ll grant you, but not physically. That’s what I meant.”

Baby, trust me when I say, you like to keep the edges soft and blurry on people. . . . Can’t say as I blame you. Seeing nothing but the hard angles is no picnic, either, but don’t worry, for this little flashback, you won’t need your glasses to see clearly.

I felt the cool breeze in the hot room, the icy chill of Jack’s presence whispering across my cheek. The sleepiness overcame me, and I immediately began to dream.

“Jack, what are these images I’m seeing?” I asked through a restless haze. “Are they your memories?”

Well, they’re not Winston Churchill’s.