The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

I shifted uneasily, trying not to give away how disturbed I was by this claim. Just yesterday I had clobbered a well built masked man—

Right in his beezer! Jack finished for me.

“His what?”

His nose, his nose!

“Okay! Okay!” I silently told Jack. “But what if claymore here is telling the truth? I can’t swear the injury is fresh. What if he really was in a car accident?”

Look, baby, if this joker really was in an accident, then his boiler out there should have some sort of dent in it. A few scratches, at least. If it doesn’t, you know he’s playing you for a rube.

“Should I make an excuse, get up now and check?”

Don’t move your keister. Check the parking lot when you leave. Right now, you’ve got to conduct your interview—only don’t let the yegg know you’re interrogating him. Facts, baby, get me some facts.

I stalled to get my thoughts in order, pretending to cough and clear my throat. Finally, striving to keep my tone conversational, I said, “I knew your uncle. Not very well or anything, but that’s why I asked. And I’m very sorry about your loss.”

“Thanks, but I hadn’t seen the man in over twenty years.”

“Really? Why is that?”

Claymore shifted in his seat; the old leather chair creaked. “Uncle Peter was part of the Newport Chesleys. My side of the family lives in Millstone. Years ago, the two sides had a falling-out. You know how it is with family feuds?”

I nodded, as if commiserating, but my mind was racing. Millstone was the next town over. Like Quindicott, it was a far cry from Newport. In fact, as property values and incomes went, Millstone was even less affluent than Quindicott.

Ms. Jane had already said Claymore needed money, that he’d come back East to help his aging parents. If that were true, then Claymore’s side of the family must not have benefitted from any of the inheritance Peter’s side had received. But just how cut off were they?

“So you’ve never been to the family’s old estate near the ocean, Prospero House?” I asked.

“Not since I was very young. I remember it being fairly creepy.”

“Yes, well…I was just there—on the night your uncle died.” I eyeballed Claymore, trying to gauge his reaction, but the man just kept staring at me, stone-faced. “It looked like the mansion was falling down around his ears,” I added pointedly.

“Is that so? Well…like I said, Mrs. McClure, all I know about my uncle’s death is what I read in the papers.”

“But the papers didn’t say much of anything.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“Your uncle died falling down a flight of stairs. But he had severe arthritis and he told me and my aunt that he no longer climbed the stairs. He’d even moved his bedroom to the first floor.”

“That’s odd, but then…” He shrugged. “My uncle was sort of odd, as I recall.”

“So you haven’t been back long?” I asked.

“What do you mean? Back from lunch?”

“No, back here in Rhode Island. When I stopped by yesterday, Ms. Jane told me about your credentials. Very impressive. You went to St. Francis College, but then you moved away, went to California to get your doctorate and you stayed out west, right? You became a professor at a teacher’s college. So when exactly did you move back East? And what exactly have you been up to?”

Whoa, baby, slow down! You’re moving too fast!

The second Jack said it, I knew I’d messed up.

Claymore Chesley stiffened, then adjusted his tie. “What is this? A job interview?” He laughed to undercut his discomfort, then he glanced at his watch. “Didn’t you come here to discuss your son?”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. I was just curious. You’re one of Buy the Book’s customers—I mean, I’ve seen you in our store—and I like to know about my customers. It helps me better serve them.”

“I moved back to Millstone last February, Mrs. McClure,” he said curtly. “And I browse lots of bookstores, but I buy them on the Internet. Now let’s discuss your son….” He scanned the file Ms. Jane had handed to him and leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “Spencer, right? What’s the problem?”

“Jack,” I silently wailed, “what do I do?”

Talk about your son. Set the man at ease. Make him think that you’re not grilling him…then go back to grilling him!

I dug into my handbag and laid out the reason I’d come, placing Spencer’s ripped Reader’s Notebook and the pieces of his first-place award certificate on the principal’s desk. I explained that there’d been bullying on the bus, that a child named Boyce Lyell had been responsible and the eyewitness was Susan Keenan, the mother of one of Spencer’s friends.

Claymore Chesley picked up the shredded notebook and shook his head. “This is unacceptable,” he said. “We’ll have to punish Boyce, of course, although…I can see how this happened.”

I nodded. “Yes, I agree. No supervision on the buses is obviously a problem.”

“What?…No, Mrs. McClure, that’s not the problem. We already have supervision on the buses. They’re called bus drivers.”

I bristled at the man’s tone, which had gone from terse to downright insufferable.

“A bus driver isn’t a monitor,” I replied, trying to keep my own tone reasonable and courteous. “A driver’s job is to drive the bus safely, pay attention to the road, not watch the kids. That’s exactly what Spencer’s driver told Susan Keenan when she berated him for not stopping the bullying.”

“Wait, wait! Back up. Are you telling me a parent berated one of our drivers? We can’t have that sort of thing going on. That’s unacceptable treatment of an employee. What did you say her name was? Susan…” He picked up a pen. “Can you spell her last name?”

I stared speechless for a moment. “Principal Chesley, I’m talking about a bullying incident here. I’m talking about how to fix the situation of no supervision on the buses.”

“There’s nothing wrong with our system, Mrs. McClure. This incident on the bus with your boy is the only one that’s come up this school year.”

“The school year just started yesterday!”

“Nevertheless, you see my point?”

“What point?!”

“The bus drivers are on the bus. The bus drivers are also adults. Therefore, there are adults on the buses already. You see? Follow the simple syllogism and there are no monitors needed.”

We went around and around like that for five more minutes. Finally, the principal stood up. “I understand your concerns, Mrs. McClure, and I’ll take it under advisement—”

“No you won’t,” I snapped, rising to my feet as well. “You’re just patronizing me. But I’m taking this up with the school board.”

“You won’t get anywhere. The school budget’s on a shoestring as it is. We can’t afford to pay teachers to ride the buses.”

“Well, the children’s safety comes first. Or at least it should. If you won’t address the problem through administration, I’m sure the parents can organize volunteers to ride the buses each day and provide supervision. I’ll bring it up at the next PTA meeting.”

“That’s very resourceful of you, but let’s be frank. Your son was bullied for a reason.”

“Excuse me? You don’t even know my son.”

“I know you own a bookstore.”

“So?”

“So…” Claymore Chesley shrugged. “It’s understandable that a bunch of angry kids were upset he won the summer reading contest. I know at least one of the evaluating teachers broached the subject of disqualifying him for having an unfair advantage.”

“Unfair advantage? Let me tell you something. My boy read every single book in that notebook. And every