The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

“There’s nothing else?” I asked. “I’m looking for a smaller box, with a single volume inside?”

Womack shrugged. “None we can find. But we ain’t looking too hard.”

“This box is smaller. It might not have broken open. The box might be in the trunk, or still in the back seat.”

“The trunk’s empty,” said Officer Womack. “There was only one box in the back seat, ripped open from the crash.” Womack shrugged. “I can look again, but—”

“Please,” I said. “Look again. Or I will.”

Officer Womack stared at me, then faced Ciders. To the man’s surprise, the chief nodded and sent him on his way. The officer returned to the crash scene, grumbling. Ciders redirected his gaze toward me.

“If you just tell me what this is about, we—”

“Is this an accident or a crime-scene investigation, Chief Ciders?”

The man blinked, then his eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at, Mrs. McClure?”

“My aunt and I sold Mr. Montour a very valuable book yesterday, worth many thousands of dollars. If it’s gone, then someone might have stolen it—”

“Nothing, Chief,” Womack called from the crash site. “Just a lot of that packing foam.”

“Thanks, Tom,” Ciders replied. Then he faced me again. “What were you saying?”

“I was saying that if this book is missing, then there may have been a crime committed—”

Ciders raised his hand. “I don’t know about any theft, Mrs. McClure, but it’s clear what happened here. Mr. Montour went to dinner, had a few drinks. Unwisely, he chose to take a drive. On Crowley Road, at the top of the hill, he got the red light. He braked, but while he was waiting for the light to turn green, he passed out. His foot slipped off the brake and his car rolled down the hill, out of control.”

“You’ve completely ruled out foul play?” I asked.

“This was an accident,” Ciders replied, growing increasingly cranky. “You can still smell the booze in the guy’s car, Mrs. McClure. This guy Montour was soused—to the gills.”

“But—”

Ciders cut me off. “Look at the tire marks. The man never braked, not even when his car careened through the fence and hit the grass.”

I looked at the marks—on the road and in the dirt. There were no skid marks on the pavement, no swerving curves in the grass, just a pair of straight lines right into the tree. Chief Ciders was correct: Montour never braked.

“And by the way, Mrs. McClure. I was out here last year, same place, same kind of accident. Only that time it was the high school quarterback, Tyler Scott. The kid went to an illegal drinking party, passed out at the wheel. The punk survived the crash. Can’t say the same for the team. They lost the regional playoffs.”

Ciders looked over his shoulder, at the shrouded form on the stretcher. “That Scott kid got away with two broken legs. Frenchy there wasn’t so lucky.”

CHAPTER 13

Book-marked for Murder

I want a burglar. A good, first-class burglar.

—William Brandon, “It’s So Peaceful in the Country,”

Black Mask, November 1943

AFTER LEAVING THE accident scene, I drove Spencer directly to school. I was plenty agitated about Rene Montour’s death, but for my son’s sake I intended to follow through with seeing Principal Eleanor P. McConnell.

Tightening the grip on my handbag’s strap, I entered the Quindicott Elementary School administration offices. Spencer’s ripped Reader’s Notebook and his torn certificate were tucked inside my bag, ready to be whipped out as incriminating evidence.

But there was no whipping to be done—not yet anyway.

The school secretary informed me that Mrs. McConnell was out on maternity leave and had been temporarily replaced by a new man with “impressive” credentials.

“He got his doctorate in California and worked out there as a professor of education at a prestigious teacher’s college,” the secretary said. “But he’s from Newport originally and even attended St. Francis College, so now he’s back in the area.”

“Oh,” I said, recovering. “May I see him?”

“He’s not in, ma’am. We don’t expect him in this morning until eleven.”

I automatically glanced at my watch. It was just after nine—no way I was wasting two hours waiting here. “Can I make an appointment to see him tomorrow?”

“Of course,” said the secretary. She took down my name and phone number, and then I asked for the new principal’s name.

“It’s Chesley,” the secretary said. “Claymore Chesley.”

I was still reeling from that little revelation when I’d returned to the store to find my aunt wearing the doe- eyed expression of a thief caught with one hand in the till.

“I know what you’re going to say, Penelope,” she told me the second I’d entered. “You’re going to say I was wrong to do it. But I’m glad I did.”

I noticed that the Phelps editions were spread out across the counter beside the register. Sadie noticed that I noticed, and she immediately started babbling.

“Before you scold me, you have to understand that I couldn’t help myself. The man was just so…persuasive. And his offer was generous, too generous to pass up.” Her face was flushed, her hands flailing madly. “Please forgive me and try to understand,” she continued, moving around the counter. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“Who wouldn’t, Aunt Sadie? What’s going on?” She was speaking so fast, and I was still so rattled by the morning’s events, it took me a minute to catch up.

“That man who called last night,” she replied. “Mr. VanRiij from New York City. He came here about an hour ago—”

“You sold another Poe!” I shrieked.

“I know I shouldn’t have done it—”

“We have to find this man. Right away!” I bolted for the door.

“Pen, stop!” Sadie ran after me, grabbed my arm. “It’s too late. He’s already on his way back to New York.”

“Please, just tell me what happened,” I demanded, turning to face her.

Her hands went back to fluttering like bee wings. “I sold him the book he wanted. Volume Ten, A Descent into the Maelstrom. He paid eight thousand dollars for it—and that’s not counting sales tax!”

“Oh…God…I need to sit down.” I collapsed into the nearest Shaker-style rocker.

“I know,” Sadie said, grinning. “I couldn’t believe the amount myself. That’s nearly four times the book’s market value—”

“No, you don’t understand,” I said, holding my head. “By selling Mr. Van Riij that book, you may have marked the poor man for murder!”

Sadie’s teeth about hit the floor when I told her about Rene Montour’s demise in an “accident.” I recounted my confrontation with Chief Ciders, telling her how the Chandler books were scattered all over the crash scene, but the Phelps Poe was missing. And I was convinced it was stolen.

Despite her pragmatic nature, and her usual distaste for rationalized baloney, Sadie began equivocating.

“But, Pen, Mr. Montour’s death…it could have been an accident.” She began to pace the aisle. “It’s possible the box containing the Phelps book was thrown clear in the crash, or it might not have been in the car. Perhaps he left the book at Fiona’s inn.”

I sighed and began massaging my temples.