The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

got no clue where the spirit of Sigmund Freud is marking time.

“I don’t need Sigmund Freud. I need a good trial lawyer. Know any?”

Sure. Abraham Lincoln. Only, like old Siggy, I don’t know where he’s located, either.

After fifteen minutes of verbally sparring with my ghost, watching teachers come in and out of the office (glancing curiously my way), and listening to the office phone ring nonstop (“Quindicott Elementary, May I help you?”), I began to pace.

“Excuse me, Ms. Jane?” I finally called.

“Yes, Mrs. McClure.” She looked up from her computer, removed the reading glasses from the tip of her nose.

“You said Mr. Chesley was ‘due back’—is he even in the building?”

Once again, Ms. Jane glanced out the window, scanned the parking lot and the long driveway leading from the road. “I’m so sorry you have to wait. He did have some personal business to take care of, but it’s been over an hour now, and he really should be back soon.”

This dame’s a back door, you know, Jack whispered through my mind.

“A back door?” I echoed.

Sure, baby, she’s a way for you to get some background on this Chesley character you’re waiting for. Use your limbo to advantage. Not that I am, by the way. I can think of a lot more stimulating places to haunt than a backwoods bookstore in a town full of hicks.

Ignoring Jack’s latest jibe, I chewed my lip and seriously considered his back door suggestion. I wasn’t a gossip at heart. I liked my own privacy and I tried to give people theirs—“Live and let live and you’ll live a lot longer,” my mom used to say. But when it came to murder, Jack was right, all bets were off.

“So…uh, Ms. Jane, I’m curious,” I said, trying to sound casual, “what can you tell me about Claymore Chesley? I mean besides what you mentioned yesterday, about his credentials.”

“Well, since you asked…” She rose from her desk and moved across the room, placing her elbows on the high counter that separated the waiting area from the rest of the office. “He’s single, never been married, and no children, as far as I know,” she said, her voice low. “I’ve overheard him talking on the phone, and it sounds to me like he came back East to help out his parents, but he’s very disappointed he couldn’t find any college-level openings right away.”

“Why does he have to help out his parents?”

“His father’s been ill. He’s in a nursing facility now, and his mother’s getting on in years. So he moved back home, took a supervisory position last spring in the school district office, ‘just to pay the bills,’ I overhead him say. With his father’s illness, they’ve likely mounted up.”

“So he’s not going to be permanently on staff here, then?”

“Oh, no! Heaven’s no. This is still Mrs. McConnell’s school. Mr. Chesley was sent here by the school district to cover for her temporarily. I spoke to Eleanor just this morning to keep her up to date on everything. She has every intention of returning after her baby’s delivered.”

Most everything else Ms. Jane knew about Clay Chesley she said she’d picked up from a memo the school district had issued to the elementary school staff, announcing his temporary appointment.

“That’s really all I know,” she said with a shrug. “Not much, since we’ve only just started working together.”

Not much? Cripes, this dame would make a hell of a professional snoop. I should hire her as my secretary.

“You can’t. You’re dead.”

Don’t get touchy, honey. Jealousy’ll give a girl wrinkles.

As Ms. Jane went back to her computer, I continued to look out the office’s back windows. Within a few minutes, a large black SUV pulled into a reserved parking slot near the building, and I found myself holding my breath, waiting for the driver to emerge.

The door opened and a tall, well-built man stepped out. He wore a tweed blazer, white shirt, brown corduroys, and a ochre tie. I couldn’t make out his facial features very well, but he had a thick head of golden hair.

Was this the principal? The man threw an overcoat over his arm and strode toward the school entrance. Less than a minute later, I had my answer. Claymore Chesley arrived in a whirlwind, sweeping through the office door without even noticing me in the anteroom.

“Jane,” the man called, snapping his fingers. “I’m back. Anything urgent?”

“Your noon appointment is here,” Jane replied, rising quickly to meet the man. She gestured in my direction.

Principal Chesley half turned, finally noticing me.

“Mrs. McClure,” he said, with a short nod. “I didn’t see you.”

That’s when I realized two things—the man did vaguely resemble Peter Chesley and I had actually seen him before. He’d been in Buy the Book a few times. I couldn’t recall waiting on him, but I was certain he’d browsed our stacks.

“Give me one more minute,” he said.

Before I could respond, he spun around again, showing me his back as he spoke with the school secretary— some business about a substitute teacher’s paycheck. Then he asked what afternoon appointments followed mine. She ran down the list. Finally, he took a file from Ms. Jane’s hands and half turned toward me again.

“All right, Mrs. McClure, come in,” he said brusquely, waving for me to follow as he swiftly strode through his open office door.

He tossed his overcoat over a cluttered corner table and sat down behind his large desk. Immediately he began tapping on his computer keyboard; his fingers, I noticed, were sans ring—wedding or any other type. Ms. Jane was right. He wasn’t married.

The monitor sat at an angle and I could partially see the screen. He was scanning his e-mails, ignoring me.

The man hadn’t apologized for being late. Nor had he invited me to sit, but there were two chairs across from his desk, obviously meant for visitors. Both had stacks of files, books, and reports on them.

“Excuse me? May I move these?” I asked.

“Sure, just drop them anywhere,” he said waving his hand, not bothering to look up from his screen.

This Alvin’s got the manners of a goat.

“Can’t argue with you there, Jack.”

I picked up the heavy stack of books and reports and looked for a place to put them.

How about this bozo’s head?

“Easy, Jack. He looks like a very busy man. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt.”

On the other hand, as I nearly wrenched my back bending to set the pile carefully on the floor, I couldn’t help remembering how chivalrous Peter Chesley had been when Sadie and I had visited him.

The old man had been struggling to even walk when he’d led us to the seats next to his library’s fireplace, yet he’d remained standing by his wheelchair, refusing to sit until Sadie and I had first taken our seats. And, even though it must have been a painful effort, he’d insisted on helping us pack up the books we took with us.

I spoke up as I sat down. “Mr. Chesley, are you, by any chance, related to Peter Chesley, the retired Brown University professor?”

“He’s my uncle,” Chesley responded tonelessly. “Or rather, he was.”

It’s a cinch, Jack said. Manners skip a generation.

“You don’t seem very upset about it,” I bluntly told the principal.

That got his attention. He shifted away from the screen at last and focused hard on me. His eyes were blue —big, beautiful, electric blue. Obviously, he shared that line of DNA with his uncle. But not the expression, which was frosty as it peered at me, miles away from friendly. His eyes, however, weren’t what disturbed me the most; it was the body part located between them—

“Your nose is swollen,” I blurted out.

Claymore frowned. His hand automatically touching the puffy, discolored skin. “Accident. Up on the highway. It was hardly more than a fender bender but the airbag deployed. That’s why I’m late.”