The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

minute.”

“Make it snappy.” Seymour snapped his fingers to punctuate his command. “We have to move. Five gallons of ice cream only buys so much time.”

“Huh?”

“I know the security guard downstairs. I deliver his mail. And he’s a customer—you’d know it, too, if you saw him. A real porker. I bribed my way in here with a tub of rocky road. Unfortunately his shift ends in ten minutes.”

I pulled on my slacks. “Seymour, I need your help to clear my name.”

“You got it, Pen. I’m not going to let some CSI-type railroad a friend of mine.”

I chewed my lip, trying to think of something clever fast, not easy on a sleep-deprived, caffeine-starved brain. The only thing I could come up with was Jack Shepard’s backdoor philosophy. Darn, I thought, that character “Beak” and his stolen Swifty Delivery uniforms would come in handy about now—

You don’t need my street rat, Jack cracked in my head. You’ve got one of your own.

Of course! I finally realized what was standing right in front of me. Or rather who.

“I’ll need to borrow a few things, Seymour,” I said at last.

“Sure. Like what?”

“For starters? Your postman’s uniform and mail bag.”

CHAPTER 22

Male Drop

“There’s probably a smart way to do this, but I can’t think of it at the moment.”

—Philip Marlowe in “Trouble Is My Business,” by Raymond Chandler, 1934

“I COULD GO to a federal penitentiary for aiding and abetting a suspected felon, you know,” Seymour groused.

“And you know Pen didn’t murder anyone,” Brainert replied. “Pen and I both suspect two people. One of them is Nelson Spinner and he’s closer to the hospital, so we’re starting with him.”

“But I’m a bona fide agent of the U.S. government,” Seymour complained. “I have responsibilities.”

Brainert rolled his eyes—I mean eye, the other one was still swathed in bandages. “You’re a postal worker, Tarnish, not Elliott Ness. Get over yourself!”

Seymour Tarnish was behind the wheel of his ice cream truck. Brainert was seated next to him. I was in the back compartment, surrounded by freezers, trays of plastic plates and spoons, and containers of sundae-making fixings. This was the spot where Seymour stood while he sold his cones and banana splits and nutty bars. I was stripped down to my underwear, trying to keep a low profile so no one would see me through the big side windows while I attempted to adjust one of Seymour’s tent-sized uniforms so it would fit me—an impossible task with a mere box of safety pins.

“Couldn’t you get a mail truck, Seymour?” I asked. “An ice cream wagon is going to attract attention.”

“Yeah, I can get a mail truck,” Seymour replied. “And I can guarantee a bevy of postal inspectors to go with it, ready to arrest us!”

From my vantage point in the rear of the ice cream truck, I could see the gates to St. Francis College looming ahead. I’d managed to fix the dark blue uniform shirt by bunching it up in the back and pinning it, then pinning the sleeves up at the shoulders. The effect was somewhat ridiculous.

Meanwhile, Brainert continued to curse our bad luck. “I can’t believe we’ve solved the mystery of the Poe Code, and were just about to secure the treasure. And now we have to deal with this! This…distraction!”

“Hey!” I cried. “Perspective, please! I’m being framed for murder. That’s a little more than a distraction!”

Brainert reddened, apparently getting a hold of himself. “You’re right, Pen. I’m sorry.”

The ice cream truck hit a speed bump and bounced, throwing me against the counter just as I was trying to get my little leg into Seymour’s big pants. I looked up and saw that we’d passed through the college gates.

“Bear right, Seymour,” Brainert directed. “This road will take you to the center campus.”

St. Francis was a crescent-shaped campus built around Merrick Pond, a small body of water that was there when the institution was founded by Franciscan monks in 1836. Most of the halls and dormitories were built on the rolling hills that circled the pond. The oldest structure on campus, a massive stone monastery now transformed into the main administrative building, occupied the highest point on the property.

We were on Lowry Road, which curved around the entire campus. Just past the 1960s-style circular dome called Kepler Auditorium, was Fenimore Hall, a massive four-story brick building where Brainert and Nelson Spinner taught classes and had their offices.

“Park over there,” Brainert said, pointing to a spot against the wall, right next to a bright orange Dumpster. Meanwhile, I called Brainert to the back compartment to help me adjust the pants. Even Seymour’s belt was too big!

“Here, use mine,” said Brainert, slipping it off. “I still have my thirty-six waist from college.”

“Braggart,” Seymour muttered.

“How do I look?” I asked, turning around like a cream pie on a pastry display.

“Absurd, but this shapeless coat should hide a multitude of sins.” Brainert tossed me the garment and I slipped it on, folded up the sleeves. He peered through the service window, at Fenimore Hall’s front entrance. “The guard is on duty. That means no one gets into the building without a valid student or faculty ID. Nobody, that is, except the mailman. Pen’s plan is wise, I have to admit. No one pays attention to the mailman. He’s invisible.”

“I resent that,” Seymour snapped.

Brainert Parker arched his visible eyebrow. “Tarnish, hasn’t it ever occurred to you that your extroverted behavior, your constant craving for attention, your anger and negativity, and that acerbic wit of yours, are merely desperate means of overcompensating for your meager station in life?”

“I’m not angry,” Seymour replied. “And I don’t have an acerbic wit. That’s all you, Parker—”

Their argument was interrupted by a student in a varsity jacket. He stood outside the truck, tapping on the service window with a coin. Seymour slid the pane open, glared at the shaggy-haired youth.

“What d’ya want?” Seymour demanded.

“I want some ice cream.”

“Ice cream!” Seymour cried. “What’s wrong with you, Joe College. It’s nine o’clock in the morning. You can’t have dessert until you’ve cleaned your plate, so scurry off and find a traditional breakfast. You don’t want to grow up looking like Oprah before the diet.”

Seymour slammed the window. “Stupid hair-head,” he muttered.

“Okaaay,” said Brainert, “here’s the plan. I’ll go up to my office on the fourth floor and wait for Pen. She will follow in two minutes. The mail drop is on the first floor, but Pen will tell the guard that she has a package for me that I need to sign for personally, and he’ll send you up.”

“But I don’t have a package,” I pointed out.

“Take this.” Seymour shoved a small box in my hand. The words FLAVO-RITE PLASTIC SPOONS were emblazoned on the side.

I stared at him. “I’m going into an institute for higher learning, not a food court.”

He rolled his eye. “Just cover the label with your arm.”

“When you get upstairs, a grad student may or may not be watching the door,” Brainert continued. “If one is on duty, give them the same story you gave the guard—that you have a package for me. Meanwhile, I shall determine if Spinner is in his office. It’s only two doors down the hall from mine so that will be easy.”

“What next?” Seymour asked.

“I’m going to keep watch while Pen breaks into Spinner’s office and searches for incriminating evidence. If she fails to find any, we’re going to break into his apartment next. Then we’ll move on to searching Claymore Chesley’s personal space.”