The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

storeroom, but thanks to your theatrics, the dolt almost got caught. It made him all the more ruthless with Brainert, however, which did prove fruitful. As for Montour…after Tyler told me about his own mishap on Crowley Road, I simply helped re-create it.”

I was horrified and sickened, furious and scared, but I had to keep my head, I had to keep stalling.

Questions, baby. More questions. The man likes to brag, let him.

“You were working for Peter Chesley,” I told Spinner. “That’s how you found the volumes. But why did you have to kill him? Why?”

Nelson Spinner offered me that super-slick smile of his. I could see why teenaged girls melted—and why Sadie and I had too. We were all too dazzled by the bright surface to see the darkness underneath.

Don’t beat yourself up, honey. Jack whispered in my head. You were the one who never bought it completely. You were the one who kept digging until you unearthed the truth.

“I did try to convince the stubborn old compulsive to sell the books to me,” Spinner said. “Or at the very least let me investigate the riddle. But the fool rebuffed my offer—insisted any treasure would be found by his family, not me. Then he had the audacity to fire me. That’s when I made the decision to take it to the next level.”

“Mr. Chesley sensed you were coming for those books. I knew he was afraid. He even suspected you were lurking in the house the night he died.”

“Yes, when I came to take possession of those volumes, I found Chesley had company—you and your aunt. He never had guests before, so I was surprised. The old man never saw anyone but me. He was still marginally rich, but the fool didn’t even employ a butler. Claimed he was saving all the money for the next generation of Chesleys— to reunite the two long-estranged branches of the family, or so he said.”

Spinner shook his head. “I confronted Chesley after you left. He told me that he’d given the books to you to sell, that you’d be getting bids too high for me to ever come close to matching. He’d trumped me and he was smug about it, too. Made sure I could never solve the code and track down the treasure. I was so angry, that…well, you know what happened, unfortunate as it was.”

“What happened, Spinner, was murder.”

“Not according to the Newport police. They received a 911 call, if you remember. Old Chesley telling them he was in much distress. Fortunately for me, I worked with the man long enough to imitate his voice.”

“Nobody will believe you if you shoot me. Someone will hear the shot, for one thing.”

“Who, Mrs. McClure? This floor is empty. I’ll kill you now, dump your corpse in Quindicott Pond tonight— after I plant evidence to prove it was you who killed Montour and stole the book.”

He smiled. The man’s smugness was off the charts.

“You’re a genuine sociopath, aren’t you?”

“Diagnosed in my teens.” He smiled. “Doesn’t bother me.”

Then I saw it, the thing Jack said to watch for—

He’s bracing baby, he’s going to fire.

Suddenly, the entire building was rocked by a horrible, howling din. The fire alarm had gone off! The noise so startled Spinner that he looked away—

Now, baby! Take your chance!

That’s when I jumped him. My right hand managed to knock the gun aside just as he pulled the trigger. The bullet slammed into a diploma, shattering the frame. I hung on to his wrist like a bull terrier, knowing if I let go he could aim and fire again.

But Spinner was much stronger than I was, and I was still hurting from the accident. He soon had me at a disadvantage.

“I should have killed you on the road last night!”

Kick him, Penelope. Right in the—

I did. Spinner wheezed and stumbled backward. Unfortunately I lost my grip on his arm. He staggered against a filing cabinet and raised the gun. I tensed, poised to attack again, determined to go down fighting.

But just then the office door flew open. Seymour was standing there, legs braced, face flushed, his shirt torn. He saw me, saw Spinner, he even saw the gun as the man tried to shift his aim to the newcomer.

With a roar, Seymour slammed into Spinner like a fullback. The gun flew out of Spinner’s hand as he reeled backward—crashing right through the window.

I heard shattering glass, a horrified scream. Spinner took the plunge amid a shower of splinters and shards. Seymour rushed to the broken window, peered down.

“What a lucky bastard,” he said. “The trash broke his fall.”

I went to the window to see what he meant. Nelson Spinner had fallen four floors, but he’d landed in a Dumpster, which seemed a fitting place for the likes of him.

“Hey, Pen, you think this is what my teachers meant when they told me, ‘garbage in, garbage out’?”

Just then, a security guard burst into the office with two campus policemen as backup.

“See,” Seymour cried to the uniformed men. He pointed to me then the gun on the floor. “I told you she was in danger. But, no, you wouldn’t believe me!” As the guards wrestled Seymour to the ground, he continued to rant.

“I knew I had to do something, Pen,” he cried. “I saw that geezer lead Brainert out the door. Then I saw Spinner coming in and knew you were in trouble. I tried to explain to these jokers, but they refused to believe me. So I tripped the fire alarm and ran for the stairwell. These goons tried to stop me, but I broke loose—”

“Don’t worry, Seymour,” I quickly assured him. “We have all the evidence we need right here in this office. I’ll get you out of this mess, I promise. I’ll tell everyone what really happened.”

“Tell them, Pen. Tell the world!” Seymour bellowed as the police dragged him down the empty college corridor. “The truth will set me free!”

EPILOGUE

Poe had tried to imagine how death might not exist, although it certainly did, and not only existed, but also made possible his art.

—Kenneth Silverman, Edgar A. Poe:

Mournful and Never-ending Rememberance, 1991

“HERE YOU GO, Pen. One chocolate sprinkle.”

I took the ice cream cone from Seymour and passed it to the next child in line, a freckle-faced little Keenan.

“Here you go, Danny.”

“Thanks, Mrs. McClure.”

It was one week after the St. Francis male drop, and things were getting back to normal. Sunset had barely descended and already a line had formed on Green Apple Road to get into the haunted house. Spiderweb-covered speakers were blaring spooky music and ghostly sounds, interspersed with seasonal classics like “The Monster Mash” and “Purple People Eater.” Dozens of flickering jack-o’-lanterns were scattered across a lawn decorated with scarecrows and ghosts made from old sheets, no doubt donated by mothers all over Quindicott.

Seymour was back to his old self, doing the job that made him the happiest. As it turned out, campus security didn’t hold him long. After the staties arrived, I showed Detective Marsh the evidence I’d found in Nelson Spinner’s office, and all charges against Seymour were dropped.

Spinner was fished out of the Dumpster and put in traction, where, thanks to a combination of his own smugness and the pain-killing drugs, he’d confessed everything to Marsh. Of course, he claimed he’d never “meant” to kill Peter Chesley, said it had been “an unfortunate accident” during a struggle. As for Rene Montour’s death, that again, he claimed was “unintentional.”

According to Spinner, Tyler Scott had flagged Montour down on the crest of Crowley Hill, pretending he’d just been in an accident and needed help. When Montour stepped out of his vehicle, Spinner emerged from behind a