The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

Jack reassured his client that he understood the terms of the job. “For now, all I need to get started is your sister’s address.”

“Fifth Avenue, across from the park.” Kerns reached into the breast pocket of his pinstripes. “Here’s her calling card.”

CHAPTER 1

Descent into the Maelstrom

The continuing popular appeal of Poe’s works is owing to their power to confirm once-real beliefs from which most people have never entirely freed themselves…that the dead in some form survive and return.

—Kenneth Silverman, Edgar A. Poe: Mournful and Never-ending Rememberance, 1991

Quindicott, Rhode Island

Today

“HEY, MOM. DO you think they’ll have a Halloween party at school this year?”

Beneath his getting-too-long-again bangs, Spencer’s grass-green eyes looked up. I slapped a dollop of steaming oatmeal into his bowl and mine, then set a fresh quart of milk on the table. Yawning, I adjusted my black rectangular glasses and brushed aside a lock of my own copper hair.

Spence had my hair color, my late older brother’s handsome features, and my late husband’s eyes. But, although the light green hue and large, round shape were Calvin McClure’s, the emotional expression inside them held little resemble to the man I’d married—and for that I was eternally grateful.

“Spencer,” I said with all the sternness that I could muster after only four hours sleep. “You haven’t seen a class since last June. I think you should worry about your education before you worry about Halloween parties.”

“But Halloween’s only two weeks away. That’s a fact. The principal can’t just ignore it.”

My son, the budding trial lawyer.

Always precocious, Spencer’s rhetorical skills had been initially influenced by the exclusive private school the McClure family had insisted he attend when we lived in Manhattan. He was in Quindicott’s public school system now, of course. But his vocabulary and stubborn proclivities were lately a result of the crime shows and legal dramas he’d been watching on the Intrigue Channel.

This autumn he’d gotten a political education, too, thanks to City Councilwoman Marjorie Binder-Smith, locally known as the Municipal Zoning Witch for the charming taxes and regulations she continually attempted to slap onto Quindicott’s businesses.

In her latest effort toward being “politically proactive,” she’d insisted on soliciting outside bidders to compete for the contract to repair the severely damaged Quindicott Elementary School (an electrical fire in early June had completely wrecked the classrooms).

Typically, the town council would have hired Ronny Sutter, who’d been doing Quindicott’s construction for decades. But hiring Ronny was what Marjorie termed “long-standing cronyism,” and she insisted they search far and wide for outside bidders. The woman had swayed a majority of the council, many of whom were brand-new to their seats, and off they went, searching for bidders.

Because of the subsequent motions, consultations, and delays, too much of the town council’s time was wasted accessing competing bids from contractors located in Providence, Warwick, Newport—even as far away as Brattleboro, Vermont. The project was delayed for six weeks. By the time the lowest bid was in and the builders went to work, the job was hopelessly behind schedule.

While Councilwoman Binder-Smith preened about the process at last being “impartial, unbiased, and fair,” the rest of the town watched Labor Day come and go without the start of elementary school classes.

Now, finally, on the cusp of All Hallow’s Eve, the children of Quindicott were heading off to their very first day of school. Needless to say, there would be no spring break this year. And I doubted a “snow day” would be called unless Quindicott was subjected to weather conditions bordering on Alaskan whiteout.

“Mom, can we go to the haunted house on Green Apple Road this weekend?”

I moved to the counter to fetch a squeeze bottle of clover honey. “I don’t know, Spencer. It might be a little too intense for a ten-year-old.”

A year ago, Spencer would probably have whined. Today he shot me a look that said I didn’t know what I was talking about.

“Puh-leaze,” he said. “You forget I watched Silence of the Lambs last month.”

“You watched half of Silence of the Lambs before I caught you. That won’t happen again, kiddo. The V chip has been activated and is in full force.”

Spencer rolled his eyes. “How scary could a haunted house be? If it was too scary, people would be having heart attacks and stuff. Then people would sue, and there wouldn’t be any haunted houses anymore. See my point?”

I saw his point. But the truth was, after last night, I’d had my fill of haunted houses….

IT WAS A dark and stormy night.

No, really.

Just after my aunt and I set out for our drive, a nor’easter smashed against the New England coast. Rain came down in sheets, pelting the new wax job off my battered Saturn. Intermittent flashes lit up the indigo sky, burying the radio’s weather report under bursts of static. And, after the lightening, of course, came the—

BOUMMMMMM!

Sadie shuddered in the passenger seat. I glanced worriedly her way, my hands choking the life out of the steering wheel. We’d both agreed to take this trip to obtain a tasty commission. It was a “one-night-only” offer to claim a stash of rare books from a lifelong collector, and we didn’t want to lose it.

New England winters were brutal. We were barely into fall and the energy bills were already murder. We needed the money. So we told ourselves we were being brave and responsible in defying the storm forecasts.

I began to reconsider that defiance.

Sadie saw me glancing her way. She gave me a little smile. “It’s not a fit night out for man nor beast,” she quipped, her bravado undercut by a nervous little laugh.

Apparently, it was also a night for cliches.

If you babes want to chin-dip for cornpone, piped up the masculine voice in my head, just say, “It’s raining cats and dogs,” and be done with it.

The spirit of Jack Shepard was nothing if not pithy. His gruff cynicism was also, oddly, a comfort to me in times of trouble. If Sadie had known about the ghost (which she didn’t), she probably would have described him as the kind of friend who bucks you up when you need it the most.

“Offended by cliches, Jack?” I silently replied, his wise crack momentarily averting my worries about the growing reduction of visibility in front of me. “I didn’t know you were a literary critic.”

Neither did I. Chalk it up to fifty years stuck in a hayseed library.

“Buy the Book is not a hayseed library, thank you very much. It’s been a respected independent bookseller for years.”

Of course, it had almost gone out of business in recent years, but I left that part out. Long ago, Sadie had taken over the shop from her father, but with her age, came the inability to manage alone, which had put the store in jeopardy. So, after Calvin took his flying leap out the bedroom window of our Manhattan high-rise, I leapt too (figuratively, anyway).

Defying the threats from my wealthy in-laws to cut me off financially, I’d left my publishing job and moved back to my Rhode Island hometown. I’d endured the enforcement of my in-laws’ threats (Calvin’s wealthy mother and sister did cut me off, although Spencer would still get his trust fund later in life). But Calvin’s modest life insurance benefit was still mine, and I’d cashed it to relocate my life and go into business with Sadie.