The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

Nuts to that!

Jack’s voice exploded so loudly in my head I nearly cried out. After a few seconds and a deep breath, I calmly addressed him through my thoughts—

“Jack, I asked you to butt out.”

Well, I’m butting in to set the kid straight. “Nobody pushes Jack around?” I got pushed around plenty. This show’s a load of hooey! That bloated barstool raconteur who called himself an author may have stolen my life and made a mint on it, but he got plenty wrong.

“You’re telling me that Timothy Brennan didn’t base this story on your files?”

Lies about my files, sure. I wasn’t hired by some goomba mobster. I was hired by an up-and-up banker. It wasn’t until I tracked down the guy’s honey that I found out he was laundering money for a gambling syndicate on the side. She came clean with me, and I went back to the man and you know what I told him?

“Nothing? Like in the television show I’m watching? Did you stand up to the man and demand he leave his old girlfriend alone?”

I lied, baby. I told the man that his girl was killed in an auto wreck. I even falsified some documents to cover her trail. Then I walked away. Nobody in their right mind butts head directly with a banker connected to the syndicate—not when you want to keep working in the same town. And definitely not when you can buffalo the guy and get away clean.

I thought that over for a few minutes, then I turned to my son. “You know, Spencer, Jack Shield…I’ve, uh… read a lot about his real life, and he’s not just tough. He’s also smart.”

“Yeah…I guess.”

“What I mean is…he doesn’t always have to muscle his way out of a situation. Sometimes he outsmarts the men who want to hurt him—”

“No, Mom! You can’t outsmart guys who are bigger than you.”

“But if you—”

“When a guy’s bigger than you, and he wants to push you around, you get pushed! Unless you’re a tough guy like Jack Shield, you get pushed all over the place! You don’t know what it’s like, Mom. You don’t know anything about it!”

And with that, my son stormed out of the living room and slammed shut his bedroom door.

Got to hand it to you, baby, you know how to clear a room.

I noticed Spencer had left his backpack on the floor. It was partially unzipped and I peeked inside. On top of his books was the Reader’s Notebook, the one Spencer had worked so long and hard on all summer. It was completely destroyed. Every page had been shredded.

I pulled it out and pieces of parchment fluttered to the floor. As I pushed the pieces back together, I was able to make out the scripted letters—

Quindicott Elementary School

First Place Award

Reader of the Year

Spencer McClure

CHAPTER 10

Expert Opinion

The truth is, I am heartily sick of this life and of the nineteenth century in general. I am convinced that every thing is wrong. Besides, I am anxious to know who will be President in 2045. As soon, therefore, as I have a shave and a cup of coffee, I shall just step over to Ponnonner’s and get embalmed for a couple of hundred years.

—Edgar Allan Poe, “Some Words with a Mummy,”

Broadway Journal, 1845

SADIE DROPPED THE receiver into its cradle, then dropped herself into a chair. “Goodness. That man nearly talked my ear off!”

“Another Poe collector?”

Sadie nodded.

I glanced at my watch. It was now just after seven P.M. Spencer often came into the store in the evening, but tonight he remained in front of the TV, brooding.

Over dinner, I gently told my son about the call I’d received from his friend’s mother. He reddened and tried to shrug off his being bullied as “no big deal,” but I wasn’t letting this go. Having his Reader’s Notebook and first place certificate ripped up was a big deal, and I was going to do the dealing.

I made a huge fuss over his winning first prize for the most books read over the summer, and told him he was getting a big reward. I would take him and a group of his friends to the haunted house on Green Apple Road and treat them to ice cream. This cheered him up considerably.

But then I told him that I’d be going to his school the next morning. He begged me to reconsider, but I was resolved. A talk with the principal was in order, whether my son liked it or not.

Meanwhile, as incredible as it seemed, Sadie had fielded five more long-distance calls inquiring about the Phelps editions. I walked over to my aunt, who’d collapsed into one of the overstuffed armchairs at the end of the aisle I was restocking.

The comfy chairs, like the antique floor and table lamps and oak bookcases, were part of the renovations I’d instigated when I first went into partnership with Sadie. Out went the ancient fluorescent ceiling fixtures and old metal shelves, in came the Shaker-style rockers, author appearances, and twenty-first-century book-selling tools.

I’d overhauled the inventory, too, adding plenty of mysteries and true crime to give us our theme, but Sadie had insisted that we keep the store’s original rare book business—and, brother, was I glad she did.

“With word of mouth like this,” I said, eyeballing our backlist levels on McCrumb, MacDonald, Mailer, and Marlowe, “we don’t need to advertise those Poe books. The collectors are coming to us.”

Sadie nodded. “News never traveled this fast in the book-collecting world that I can recall.” With a tissue, she cleaned her glasses, which dangled from her silver chain. “Between cell phones and the Internet, things move at the speed of light! I feel like I’m suddenly in the world of high finance, the way that last caller pressured me!”

“You held out, though?” I replied.

“Yes, I certainly want to hear what Brainert’s expert has to say. But he better stop by the shop soon. I’ve managed to fend off everyone so far, but it hasn’t been easy. I’m sorry to say that last fellow actually became verbally abusive. He was convinced I was simply holding out for a better price.”

Garfield, who’d finished restocking the new release table, scratched his full beard. “That’s because he’s probably a corporate goon. They all think you’re ripping them off because they do it.”

Junior here’s a real Confucius, Jack groused. He knows a lot, for someone who’s done bupkus.

“He’s young,” I silently replied. “Garfield likes to think he’s sticking it to the man.”

Lamb chop, I’m not reading your frequency.

“My frequency?…Oh! You mean my slang? Well here’s a bulletin, Jack, sometimes I don’t read yours either.”

What’s not to get? You’re the one who claims to be a fan of these fantasyland detective stories you peddle, not me.

I noticed Garfield retrieving his jacket from the store closet. “Gotta go, Mrs. McClure. Time for the night shift at the gas station.”

Sadie shook her head. “When do you sleep, young man?”

“Sleep! Who needs it?” Garfield smiled and waved. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”