The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

“Huh?”

Are you ready to fight back?

“Against who? Against what?” I cried. Aloud, apparently.

“What did you say, dear?” Sadie asked. She’d returned with a plate in one hand and a full glass of milk in the other. She wore a puzzled expression.

“Sorry…nothing,” I said with a sigh. “I was just thinking out loud.”

“Have something to eat. You’ll feel better,” my aunt commanded.

When I sat down behind the counter, I saw a white envelope tucked next to the register. It had Brainert’s name on it, written in my aunt’s flowing hand.

“What’s this?” I asked between bites of my Virginia ham and Swiss cheese sandwich.

Sadie picked up the envelope and opened the flap. “Brainert and Seymour helped me pack up the chairs after the meeting last night,” she said. “A little while ago, when I was sweeping out the storage room, I found this…”

She dropped a heavy object into my palm—a quarter-inch black square of onyx with a gold crest set in the middle. I immediately recognized the coat-of-arms of St. Francis College, where Brainert was a professor.

“It must have fallen out of Brainert’s ring,” Sadie said. “You can give it to him when you visit him later.”

“Why am I visiting Brainert later?”

“He wants you to come by, after he’s had a chance to do more research on the Poe Code.”

I’d had my fill of Phelps, Poe, and the ridiculous code, but I kept silent, took a gulp of milk instead. I stared out the window a moment, at the people on the sidewalk, wondering how many of them I knew.

“I’m almost afraid to go out,” I said. “I feel like the police are watching me all the time. I’m afraid I’m going to get arrested again. Most of all, I’m worried about my reputation. Word is bound to get out.”

Sadie shook her head. “Don’t be silly, Pen. Hardly anyone knows what happened. It will be the Quibblers’ little secret.”

The chimes rang when a young man stepped through the door

“Here’s your Bulletins, ma’am,” he said, dropping a bundle of newspapers next to the door. He was delivering our store’s consignment of the Quindicott Bulletin, the town’s weekly pennysaver and local newspaper rolled into one.

“Thank you,” I called.

The youth’s friendly smile vanished when he saw me. He was out the door and down the street in a flash. Meanwhile Sadie pulled a copy from the stack, glanced at the front page, and exploded.

“Damn that Elmer Crabtree!”

“What’s wrong?” I cried. But I knew. I knew when the delivery boy gave me that look.

The main headline dealt with the beginning of the school year, including a photo of the kids arriving on the first day. The second story involved me, under the headline LOCAL STOREOWNER IMPLICATED IN THEFT.

The story was all of three paragraphs, obviously inserted just before the paper went to press this morning. Thankfully there was no mug shot. The article was factually incorrect, describing Rene Montour as a “Frenchman” who died in a “collision.” Editor Crabtree even managed to get our store’s name wrong, calling it “Buy Books Here.” Of course, he did manage to spell my name right, and give my age (not that I’m vain, but I wouldn’t want my weight or bank account information in the newspaper, either).

“I’d better have that talk with Spencer real soon,” I said.

Sadie folded the paper and tossed it into the wastecan. “Speaking of Spencer. Don’t you have a meeting with the new principal this afternoon?”

“I should cancel. I can’t leave you alone in the store—”

“Nonsense. Business is slow, Pen. And Mina is coming in an hour.”

“Mina? I thought Garfield was working today.”

Sadie shrugged. “He called me just after I opened the store. Said he switched days with Mina. Said it was all worked out and she would be in on time.”

I had yet to have that talk with Garfield about the missing key. Now I began to wonder if Garfield was avoiding me, or if he had something to hide.

That kid’s a gimp, for sure, said Jack. I’d peg him for a grifter, but one on a leash. If someone in the Platt family is in deep, I’d pin it on Garfield’s brother, the fish who’s fresh out of the joint.

“Just because someone went to prison doesn’t mean they’re a criminal. I was in jail last night, but I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Babe, stop living in Dimsville. Jail isn’t the same as prison. And there are two things to remember in life: people don’t change, and most of them are no damned good.

“The way I’m feeling, I won’t even argue with you.”

But you’re still not ready to go to the mat.

“I’m going to see the principal now,” I said out loud.

“That’s good, Pen,” my aunt replied. “And don’t forget to stop by Brainert’s afterwards. I can’t wait to hear what he’s discovered.”

A visit to the Casa de Egghead? Why do you want to go there, lamb chop? You just got out of jail!

CHAPTER 16

Principally Speaking

You get a smack on the snozzle in about a minute.

—Norbert Davis, “Kansas City Flash,”

Black Mask, March 1933

“I’M SORRY, MRS. McClure, Mr. Chesley should be back any minute.”

Behind the high metal counter, the school secretary, “Ms. Jane” (what Jane Wiley had been instructing kids and parents to call her since I was ten years old) checked the antique watch on a chain around her neck. She glanced out the bank of windows behind her, patted the back of her upswept, silver-threaded brown hair, then sat down at her wooden desk and began to drum a pencil against the side of her computer.

She looked up at me again, a little nervously, then quickly shifted her attention to her computer screen. The lady seemed uncomfortable. Of course, it occurred to me Ms. Jane’s real discomfort might not have been her boss’s lateness but my notorious presence. After all, how many times a day did a LOCAL STOREOWNER IMPLICATED IN THEFT walk into the Quindicott Elementary School office?

Well, baby, Jack said, if the broad introduces you as “the accused,” that’ll be your first clue.

“Thank you,” I simultaneously said to Jack and the secretary.

There was a line of empty chairs near the glass office door and I sat down in one. Whether it was my night in jail or the giant poster on the wall listing DO’S AND DON’TS OF SCHOOL CONDUCT, I suddenly felt like I’d been sent in here for a reprimand.

Jack laughed. Feeling like a bad girl, are you?

“During the six years I went to this school, I never before saw the inside of this office.”

No? You mean nice-thinking, do-right, moo juice–drinking little Penelope never got into trouble? Now there’s a headline.

“Stow it, Jack.”

There you go with that nautical talk again, and I can’t stand the navy.

I massaged my throbbing temples. “I’m charged with a felony, waiting to see the principal, and a ghost who lives in my bookstore won’t stop harassing me. What happened to my life?”

Aw, baby, now don’t go getting into a funk, ’cause the last time I checked, I ain’t no shrink, and I