The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

sucker.”

Now you’re speaking my language!

CHAPTER 14

Quibble Me This

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary/Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

—Edgar Allan Poe, “The Raven,” 1845

'IT IS HEREBY proposed that the Quinidicott Business Owners Association shall make a request to the Zoning Board to extend parking hours (pahkin’ ah-wahs) an additional hour within the city limits Monday through Thursday, and an additional two hours on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights.”

Bud Napp, the widower who owned Cranberry Street Hardware, paused to stifle a yawn. “We do this in anticipation of the crowds that will supposedly be drawn to the artsy-fartsy films Brainert is going to exhibit when his theater opens next month—”

“I object to that negative remark!” Brainert exclaimed with indignation. “My theater will be a valuable addition to this community.”

“If the zoning witch lets you have a permit, maybe,” Seymour said. “Otherwise your grand movie palace is going to be one big box of empty.”

Brainert scowled. “Thanks for the bulletin, Tarnish. Shouldn’t you be peddling ice cream to the teeners up at the haunted house?”

“No way, Parker,” Seymour replied with a grin. “Wouldn’t miss this meeting for the world.”

It was obvious to me that Seymour had already heard about the masked man breaking into my store and was here to learn all the juicy details.

Mailmen don’t have much to live for, do they, doll?

On that, I had no comment.

“Anyone ready to second the final motion on the table?” Bud Napp bellowed impatiently.

Linda Cooper-Logan and her husband, Milner, of Cooper Family Bakery, both raised their hands. “We second it.”

“Motion passed.” Bud slammed the hammer down, rattling the table. He was wielding a real hammer, too—a brand-new ball peen fresh from his hardware store. Someone had absconded with the gavel after a meeting several months ago. It was one mystery the Quindicott Business Owners Association (a.k.a., the Quibble Over Anything Gang) hadn’t got around to solving.

On the other hand, some of the members had helped me solve far more vexing mysteries. To wit: Bud Napp, Seymour Tarnish, J. Brainert Parker, Fiona Finch, Linda and Milner Logan, and Mr. Koh and his daughter had helped solve the murder of a visiting true crime author this past summer. Tonight, after the regular meeting adjourned, I was holding out hope they’d stay and help Sadie, Brainert, and I solve another.

Bud Napp searched me out in the crowd. “This meet’s adjourned,” he declared with a slam.

The room began to empty at once. Casual attendees filed out immediately—folks like Chick Pattelli, owner of the garden store; Glenn Hastings of Hastings Pharmacy; and Gerry Kovacks, owner and manager of the newly opened phone store, Cellular Planet. All were escorted through the bookstore, to the front door by Sadie. Within a few minutes, the only folks left in the meeting room were the people I’d ask to stay. Sadie locked the door and joined us.

Rather self-consciously, I stepped behind the podium set up at the front of the room. Behind me, Bud Napp sat at a table, our judge and referee in these informal gatherings as well.

For the next hour, I brought everyone up to speed—about the death of Peter Chesley in Newport, Rene Montour’s fatal accident on Crowley Road, ending with the details on the attempted robbery of my store and the assault on yours truly.

Milner cleared his throat. “There’s something you should know, Pen. Officer McCoy was in the bakery this afternoon. He told me what happened. And he claimed you’d made the whole thing up.”

“What?!” I cried.

Linda nudged her husband with her elbow. “Tell her the rest of it,” she demanded.

Milner winced. “McCoy said…sorry, Pen, but he made a crack about you. About how everyone around town knows all about how you became a widow, that your husband killed himself. I think he meant to suggest that maybe you were…you know…mentally unstable.”

Seymour Tarnish balled a fist and banged his thigh. “That’s just the kind of crap I expect to hear from Bull McCoy. What did that jerk’s partner have to say?”

“Eddie wasn’t there,” Linda replied. “It was just McCoy, shooting off his mouth. I don’t know how that moron even got on the police force.”

“It’s easy when you’re Chief Ciders’s nephew,” Bud pointed out.

I threw up my hands. As small a town as this was, I couldn’t believe no one had shared that little fact with me before tonight. “No wonder McCoy is spreading stories about me. He gets his attitude from his uncle.” And everyone knew there was no love lost between Ciders and me.

“Forget it, Pen,” Brainert said. “We believe you. That’s what counts.”

Fiona Finch rose. “Getting back on the subject at hand, Penelope, I think you should know I received a strange phone call this afternoon….”

As Fiona deliberately allowed her voice to trail off, Seymour folded his arms and tapped his foot. Fiona loved drawing out the suspense when she dispensed gossip. We were all used to it by now, but it continually drove Seymour up the wall.

“Out with it!” he cried. “Who from?”

“From Rene Montour’s uncle in Canada,” Fiona declared.

Sadie nodded. “That’s not unusual. Jacques Montour is the family patriarch and the true book collector in the family. Rene does—er, did bidding and buying for Jacques.”

“Well,” Fiona said, “Jacques Montour requested we hold Rene’s luggage and personal effects until a representative of the family arrives.”

“When is this representative expected?” I asked.

Fiona glanced at her watch. “He should be at the inn right now. I left my Barney at home to meet them. Whoever he is, he’s going to be disappointed.”

Sadie blinked. “Why?”

“Mr. Montour didn’t leave much in his room,” Fiona replied. “But I knew he was travelling with something of value because the first thing he did was ask me if the inn had a vault. I told Mr. Montour he was free to avail himself of the inn’s wall safe, but after checking it out, he told Barney that the safe would not be large enough for his purposes.”

“Montour obviously wanted to stash the books in a secure place,” Sadie said. “He knew they were too valuable to leave in the room, so he kept them with him at all times. That’s why the books were in the car when he went for a drive.”

“But the question is, why did he go for a drive?” I asked. “Mr. Montour had dinner at Fiona’s restaurant, he didn’t know anyone in the town except perhaps Sadie. Where was the man going at nine o’clock on a Sunday night in Quindicott?”

“Mr. Montour received a phone call at around eightthirty, if that’s any help,” Fiona offered. “About fifteen minutes later, he went out.”

“Another mysterious caller,” Seymour said in his woowoo spooky voice. “Could it be the same as-yet unknown person who called 911 while you were at Chesley’s mansion? Only the shadow knows…”

Anybody going to tell this rube he’s being about as helpful as a rock in your shoe?

“Two murders and an assault over a set of books,” Milner said. “What I’d like to know is why they’re so