smoke. And we hit a dead end, anyway.”
“Not necessarily,” said Brainert with the hint of a smile.
“What have you got, Brainiac?” Seymour demanded.
“Turns out there was a bundle of papers packed away with the Phelps editions—papers belonging to Miles Milton Chesley, the grandfather of Sadie’s friend Peter Chesley.”
I’d forgotten all about those papers, and the fact that Sadie gave them to Brainert to peruse.
“According to his letters, Miles Chesley bought each volume as they were published, mostly because he was obsessed with finding the treasure,” Brainert explained.
“Did
“Only the first one, pointing to the Mystic library,” Brainert replied. “The same one Dr. Conte solved.” His grin reappeared. “But I solved another.”
“Explain, oh great one,” Seymour urged.
Brainert nodded. “Ever see those tiny numbers and letters tucked near the fold of a hardcover? Those are signature marks and they exist to tell the bookbinder in what order the leaves should be bound. Well, in the Phelps books, there is a signature mark on the title page of each volume.”
“The title page?” I said. “That makes no sense.”
“Exactly! The title page is page five in the front matter of each volume, far too soon for a new leaf—since leaves are typically sixteen to twenty pages. That’s when I realized the marks were bogus.”
“That’s why you had Sadie copy the title pages for you!” I cried.
Brainert nodded. “I used a magnifying glass to examine the tiny letters and realized they were not the initials of the book titles, as is customary. These letters appeared to be random, and one of the volumes had a tiny mark that looked like a stray period. But when I examined it closely, I found it resembled a bug! So, of course, I applied the cryptogram that Edgar Allan Poe invented for his classic detective story, “The Gold Bug,” to those random letters in the title page signature marks, and I decoded the phrase ‘This is indeed Life itself.’”
Seymour scowled. “And this means?”
“It’s from a Poe story,” Brainert said. “A very important passage found in—”
We were interrupted by a pounding noise. Someone was knocking on the store’s front door. The CLOSED sign was posted and the store lights dimmed, so I wondered who it could be. The pounding began again, followed by the buzz of the night doorbell.
“I’d better get that. I don’t want Sadie to be bothered.” I rose and moved through the darkened bookstore to the front door. On the way, I saw flashing red lights rippling through the windows. Quindicott and Rhode Island State Police cars lined the curb. When I opened the door, a blast of frigid night air washed over me, and I shivered as three dark silhouettes stepped forward.
I saw the big, heavyset form of Chief Ciders, a scowl on his face. At his side, Eddie Franzetti shifted uncomfortably. I recognized the tallest of the three, a broad shouldered, bull-necked man in a gray Statie uniform and Smokey the Bear hat. This time it wasn’t the cold that made me shiver, but the stone cold eyes of Detective Lieutenant Roger Marsh of the Rhode Island State Police.
“You’re Mrs. McClure? Penelope Thornton-McClure?” Marsh asked, deadpan.
“You know I am,” I replied.
I heard a sound behind me. Brainert and Seymour had followed me out of the meeting. Marsh saw them, too.
“Step outside, please, Mrs. McClure.”
I figured he wanted to ask me questions, and wanted privacy to do it.
Suddenly Jack’s shout filled my head.
His warning came too late. I stepped across the threshold, pulling the door closed behind me. Suddenly Officer Bull McCoy stepped out of the shadows. His strong hands grabbed my arms, pulled them behind me. I heard a
“Penelope Thornton-McClure, you are under arrest for grand larceny,” said Detective Marsh in a voice like doom. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”
I hardly heard the rest of his spiel. When Marsh asked me if I understood the charges and my rights, I stared at the man in shock.
“You’re charging me with grand larceny?” I repeated.
“That’s right.”
“What in the name of heaven was I supposed to have stolen!”
“Do you understand your rights as I’ve read them to you?” Marsh repeated. “Ma’am, answer yes or no.”
“Yes, but—”
I heard the bookstore’s door fly open and Seymour Tarnish’s irate voice cry out. “Hey, you fascists, what the hell do you think you’re—”
Bull McCoy stepped around me with his nightstick clutched in his fist. “Back off, mailman, if you know what’s good for you or you can go to jail, too.”
Behind me, I heard “Go to hell, McCoy!” a scuffle and a grunt.
“That’s enough, Bull,” Chief Ciders said.
Officer Tibbet of the Quindicott Police escorted me to a squad car. Chief Ciders placed a beefy hand on my head to gently guide me into the back seat.
Still numb, I finally looked back and gasped. Seymour was crumpled on the sidewalk, clutching his stomach. Brainert, pale and in shock, stood over him. Together they helplessly watched the police cruiser carry me away.
CHAPTER 15
A good reputation is more valuable than money.
—Publius Syrus
I WAS TAKEN directly to the Quindicott Police headquarters, a surprisingly small redbrick building on the outskirts of town.
A female officer searched me, then my personal belongings were placed in a manila envelope, including my wallet, watch, bracelet, earrings, and loose change. After that I was led into another room where I was posed against a white screen and handed a plaque with my name and date on it. A young male officer snapped my photograph with a handheld camera. Then my fingerprints were taken.
While I was wiping the ink from my hands, I heard angry voices from the next room. I recognized Chief Ciders’s bellow. The other speaker was Detective Marsh, who spoke with calm authority.
I couldn’t make out much, but it sounded to me like they were fighting about my arrest. Apparently Ciders wasn’t happy.
A policewoman took my arm. I recognized her as a customer in my store. I’d seen her browsing with her two preteen daughters in tow. Now my face reddened with shame and I could hardly face her.
The room they placed me in was deemed a “holding cell”—a cubicle with sickly green paint on the walls, a concrete floor, fluorescent lights, and a cot, sink, and toilet. There were no bars on the doors or windows. In fact, there were no windows, except for the wire-laced pane set in the steel door so the officers could keep an eye on their prisoner. The room must have been soundproofed, because the last thing I heard was the click of the lock being thrown.
I felt like crying, but the tears wouldn’t come. They’d taken everything from my pockets, including Jack’s buffalo nickel. I closed my eyes, willed him to be there for me, but there was nothing. I couldn’t feel him or hear him. I felt lost and completely alone.
There was no chair, so I laid down on the bunk, expecting to toss and turn all night. But I was coming down hard off an adrenaline shock, and I fell into a deep deathlike sleep. I didn’t wake up until another policewoman
