The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

“Ah, youth,” she murmured as she rose and stretched. She’d already brought the store’s laptop up front. While she took a seat behind the counter and read the store’s e-mails, I continued checking our backlist levels. It took me about twenty minutes to finish—as well as clean up some muddy footprints tracked between Mickey Spillane and Sara Paretsky. That’s when the front door chimed.

“Penelope?”

I recognized Brainert’s voice. “Hey,” I called, standing up and pushing the hair out of my face, now damp with perspiration. I crossed the store and rounded the corner of a bookcase to find my friend walking up to the counter. He was wearing the same salmon-colored V-neck and white button-down he’d had on this morning, save for the addition of a bow tie. He’d also exchanged the J. Crew wind breaker for a heavier J. Crew peacoat—and he’d brought another man with him.

The newcomer was tall with broad athletic shoulders. He had the sort of late-season tan you see on die-hard surfers or golfers with second homes in Palm Beach. His hair was sun-kissed golden, and he wore it in a boyish twentysomething mop, which suited him even though his attractive weathered features said, “definitely over thirty.” Then his electric blue eyes focused on me, and (though I am loath to admit something like this) I actually stopped breathing for a few seconds.

Brainert stepped forward. “Penelope, I’d like to introduce you to Associate Professor Nelson Spinner, Department of English, St. Francis College.”

Nelson Spinner clearly eschewed the preppy look favored by Brainert and most of the other faculty members at St. Francis. He wore a beautifully tailored charcoal suit with a crisp, blue shirt and matching Windsor-knotted tie that perfectly matched his penetrating eyes. A fine, black tailored overcoat was draped on his arm.

“Mrs. McClure, Professor Parker has told me so much about you,” he said, extending his hand. His voice was pleasant, his grip firm but gentle, and I felt his hand linger in mine a beat longer than necessary.

“You’re not from around here,” I said, detecting no tell-tale signs of dropped R’s and drawn-out vowels.

“Bucks County, Pennsylvania,” Spinner replied with a polite smile.

“Nelson did his graduate work in Philly,” Brainert noted.

“Really? You didn’t have the good fortune of studying with Camille Paglia, did you?”

Spinner’s smile warmed. “Actually, I attended the University of Pennsylvania and Professor Paglia is part of the faculty at the University of the Arts. But I did attend quite a few of her public lectures, and I found the experience quite edifying.”

I nodded in agreement. “I saw her speak in Boston a few years ago and envied her students. I wish we could lure her here for a talk on the femme fatale in popular culture. I’m sure I could pack this place with people who’d buy up her backlist. She’s a wonderful speaker, isn’t she?”

“Indeed she is, Mrs. McClure.”

My aunt suddenly cut in. “Let’s not be so formal, Professor Spinner. Call her Penelope. And I’m Sadie.”

Spinner turned to offer his hand to my aunt. “Ah, the owner of those rare volumes.”

“You’re talking about the Phelps books, I presume?”

“You bet,” Brainert answered. “Nelson is something of an expert.”

Spinner modestly waved off Brainert’s compliment. “I’m no expert, truly. But I do know a bit about Eugene Phelps.”

I managed to dust myself off and lose the shapeless smock I’d donned while doing the store’s housekeeping. As I worried whether my powder-blue sweater and jeans were presentable, I realized Spinner had managed to come off as warm and intimidating at the same time—no easy feat…then again, maybe it was just me.

Stop fussing, baby, Jack commanded. I’ve told you plenty of times… you’re whistle bait. No man alive wouldn’t want you heating his sheets.

“For pity’s sake, Jack…” I tried to will my cheeks from flaming. “Not now, please?”

Sure, honey, but why your heart’s beating twice its speed for Blondie here’s beyond me. The guy dresses well, but his expression’s got more sap than a maple tree.

“Not everyone’s as hard-boiled as you, you know.”

Sweetheart, strawberry jam would be more hard-boiled than this joker.

“Stow it, Jack!”

Stow it? What are you, on a nautical frequency now? Did you join the coast guard when I wasn’t looking?

“Jack…”

And another thing, why in hell is Bow Tie Boy wearing a peacoat? Last I checked he hadn’t joined the swabbie corp—yet in he waltzes wearing navy surplus, for cripe’s sake!

“Well, let’s see now,” Sadie said, making a show of glancing at her watch. “I’ll have to close the store and shut out the register.” She paused to give a theatrical sigh. “I’ll be along shortly, but Penelope can certainly take you back, get you started.”

“Well…I…I’m really not well-versed about the Phelps books,” I said, glaring at Sadie. She winked back!

“Nonsense,” she told me firmly. “Professor Spinner is the expert. That’s why he’s here. To tell us all about them.”

“Come on, Nelson. Let’s go,” Brainert said, impatiently charging forward.

Spinner followed Brainert through the archway, into the Community Events space, and presumably to the storage room beyond.

As I stepped around the counter to follow, Sadie lightly squeezed my arm and whispered, “I think you should be very nice to Professor Spinner.”

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing. For all I know, he’s married.”

Sadie shook her head. “There’s no ring on his finger, dear. And you really should pay more attention to things like that. You won’t always have me around to play matchmaker.”

“You can quit anytime.”

“Now, Pen, last night you were complaining that you had a better chance of being struck by lightning than meeting an available man around Quindicott. Professor Spinner looks available to me!”

“Well, the joke may be on both of us,” I replied. “He’s Brainert’s colleague, remember? Maybe Spinner’s gay, too.”

Sadie grinned, patted my arm. “Have fun finding out.”

I felt like a piece of undercooked meat being thrown to the lions. Clenching my fists, I walked through the archway to the events space. Only the emergency lights were glowing, so I paused (read: stalled) and turned on the ceiling lights.

“Come on, Pen, hurry up!” Brainert called. “The door’s locked.”

As the two men waited by the storeroom, I overheard Brainert reciting a blow-by-blow description of Rene Montour’s purchase earlier in the day.

My keys to the storeroom were bundled with a halfdozen others on a long chain connected to my belt. It wasn’t very attractive, I have to admit—looked like something a building supervisor in a New York apartment house would wear on his tool belt. But Spencer gave the chain to me last Christmas, and I found it surprisingly efficient.

While I fumbled for the right key, Brainert finished his story.

“So, Pen,” he said, “any more interest in the books?”

“Six calls this afternoon.”

Brainert blinked. “If they all show up in person to pick up their books, then Finch Inn is going to be booked solid. You ought to get a kickback from Fiona.”

“That’ll be the day.”

I pushed the door open, flicked on the lights. Sadie had made the back room presentable in anticipation of Spinner’s arrival. She’d briefly opened the back door to let in some fresh air and placed the Phelps editions on the desk, which had been cleared—the laptop moved up front. She’d even arranged folding chairs around the desk.

When Brainert saw the books, he smacked his lips as if he were anticipating a gourmet meal.

“May I?” Professor Spinner asked, simultaneously meeting my gaze and gesturing to the volumes.

“Of course.” I settled into a folding chair and watched him pick up Volume One. He slowly ran his hand down the spine and cover. I noticed his hands were nimble, his fingers long and elegant.

Brainert cocked an eyebrow. “Interesting that these books are all bound so differently—”