The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

Brainert paused to catch our eye. “Before noon today, however, I insist we proceed to Newport, no matter how far along we are with the snooping—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Seymour interrupted, “so we can pick up this supposed ‘treasure.’”

Three minutes later I climbed the short flight of stairs to Fenimore Hall. The security guard faced me with a bored expression. “The mail drop’s just inside the door, to your left,” he said.

“I have a package for J. Brainert Parker. He has to sign for it.”

“Fourth floor. Elevator’s straight ahead,” the guard replied. He turned away to check a student’s ID and I was forgotten, just as Brainert predicted.

The hall was long and dark and smelled vaguely of floor polish. I went directly into the elevator, pressed four. At the third floor, a distinguished-looking man with curly gray hair and a tweed suit stepped into the car. He casually nodded to me as the elevator arrived on the top floor.

The security desk was deserted. Brainert was actually waiting for me in the corridor as the doors opened. His expression suddenly changed when he saw the other passenger.

“Dean Halsey! How nice to see you,” Brainert said, grinning broadly.

“Heavens, Parker. What happened to you?”

Brainert touched his face. “Had an accident…Antique hunting. A run-in with a Victorian mirror.”

I stepped out of the elevator, around the men.

“You’re just the fellow I was looking for, Parker,” said Dean Halsey. He put his arm on Brainert’s shoulder and steered him to the waiting elevator. “I hope you’re up for a walk across campus. We’ll have coffee in my office —”

“But I—” 'No excuses. This is an emergency. I need someone who can organize next year’s faculty luncheon—”

Just before the elevator doors closed, Brainert shot me a helpless look that told me I was on my own.

No you’re not, babe. You’ve got me.

“Oh, Jack, thank goodness you’re here. I have to find Nelson Spinner’s office—and I’m really hoping he’s not in it.”

I needn’t have worried on that score. The fourth floor was completely deserted, the long corridor lined with locked doors. Clipboards hung on each, displaying the professor’s name and office hours. From the schedules I saw, no one showed up at this place before noon.

I found Brainert’s office—the door was ajar—and then I found Spinner’s. He had no office hours scheduled for today, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Spinner’s door was locked, of course. The lock itself was pretty flimsy, not like the one on Prospero House’s back door. This one was identical to the one on my bathroom door back home. I’d already figured out how to trigger a lock like that.

Back when Spencer was still inclined to dark moods, after his father’s suicide and our move to New England, he sometimes locked himself in the bathroom. He gave up when he figured out his mom wasn’t letting him get away with hiding in there.

Need advice on the lock, babe? You could maybe use that fire extinguisher on the wall over there to smash the knob. It will make a lot of noise but—

“That won’t be necessary,” I said with a bit of pride.

I didn’t have a credit card, but Seymour’s plastic Post Office ID badge served my purposes. I shoved the card between the door and the jam and wiggled the knob a few times. The lock sprang with a satisfying click, and I slipped inside the room.

Nice, baby. Quiet, too.

“Thanks.”

The office was stuffy, the morning sun streaming through the wood-framed window, heating the room unbearably, so I left the door slightly ajar. There was a pair of filing cabinets, a desk with a computer on it, books and papers piled up everywhere. There were no personal touches I could see, beyond diplomas hanging on the wall.

I noticed a lot of personal correspondence, all of it indiscreetly scattered about the desk. Letters and postcards from at least three women—or should I say girls. From the sorry tone of each missive, the women were lovesick and devastated, and likely spurned by Spinner.

I went through each drawer, came up with nothing. The bottom drawer was locked, however, and I immediately focused on it. I began working the old lock with a letter opener. It took only a minute to splinter the wood enough to yank the drawer open.

A student folder lay on top of a pile of stuff inside the drawer. Something about the name on that file—Tyler Scott—triggered my memory. When I saw that his home address was in Quindicott, I remembered when I’d heard the name. Tyler Scott was a quarterback on the Quindicott high school team. He was the boy who Chief Ciders told me had wrecked his car in the same manner and at the same spot where Rene Montour died.

I cracked the file and saw the papers Scott had written for Spinner’s class. All of them had failing grades, except the last. On that paper, Spinner had scrawled the word Plagiarism across the title page. A note attached read: SEE ME AFTER CLASS TODAY, MR. SCOTT. YOUR ATHLETIC SCHOLARSHIP AND YOUR FUTURE AT THIS SCHOOL ARE IN JEOPARDY. It was signed “DR. SPINNER.”

The note was dated Monday, and I found the timing interesting. It was the day after Peter Chesley died, the day before Rene Montour was killed, and two days before I was attacked.

“He could have blackmailed this boy into attacking me and stealing the Phelps editions from my store,” I said to Jack. “Possible?”

Possible. But like you told me in your dream, honey, you need proof. Keep looking.

I’d been digging down through the papers in the locked drawer, and the very next file made my heart stop—

“Oh, my God.”

The file contained the photocopies that my aunt had made for Brainert, and pages upon pages of notes that belonged to him—I knew because there were bloodstained fingerprints on several sheets of paper!

Baby, you struck the mother lode!

I continued rummaging through the pile—only to freeze when my fingers closed on a book. I pushed the pages aside and pulled out The Poetic Principle, volume twelve of the Eugene Phelps editions of Edgar Allan Poe. The book Sadie had sold to Rene Montour the day he was killed.

“Eureka,” I whispered. “It was Spinner who murdered Montour.”

“Well, aren’t you a resourceful woman?”

It wasn’t Jack’s voice. And it wasn’t in my head. Nelson Spinner was standing in his office doorway. He stepped inside, then closed the door behind him. Without wasting a second, he drew a handgun out of his charcoal-gray suit jacket and pointed it at my heart.

“Seems the state troopers are suspicious about Montour’s car accident. They questioned my landlady, but I slipped out the back, came here to destroy the evidence. It’s a good thing I did, wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. McClure?”

Steady, baby. He’s a paper pusher. I doubt he spends much time on the firing range, and I’m betting his aim ain’t true.

“Jack? What do I do?”

Guns recoil, he’s going to brace before he fires. Watch for it. Then take the chance you have to take.

“Why are the police looking for you?” I asked, stalling for time and praying Brainert would make it back to rescue me.

Spinner shrugged. “I suspect the state troopers traced the call I made to Mr. Montour at the inn on the night he died—an invitation to see a collection of rare books soon to be auctioned. He fell for it, naturally, and I laid my trap—”

“With the help of Tyler Scott, right? A poor kid you blackmailed to help you.” I waved his file.

“Yes, Tyler did prove helpful. Not with you, of course. I provided him with a universal key to break into your