The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

I SHIVERED AS I stepped out of the warm automobile. A gothic-style portico shielded the entrance to Prospero House from the brute force of the wind and rain, but the night air was downright frigid.

Side by side, Sadie and I climbed the three stone steps that led to the mansion’s carved front doors. Flanking the entrance were two bronzed mermaids with long flowing hair and angelic faces, their scabrous tails encrusted by a green patina.

Before I located the doorbell, I heard the click of a bolt. Gradually, arthritically, one heavy door opened, its hinges moaning as if protesting the painful movement. Then a lashing burst of rain drummed the east wall of the portico, and a sudden bone-white flash revealed our host.

Tall but flimsy as a scarecrow, Peter Chesley’s sallow flesh was the color of old parchment, his once-blue eyes milky and bloodshot. His hair, no longer thick and golden, was nearly gone, save for a bristle-brush of gray ringing his pasty scalp. His ashen cheeks appeared caved in, giving his face the look of a deflated soccer ball.

Swathed entirely in black, the man’s soft velvet coat was natty and moth-eaten, with badly frayed sleeves. His threadbare pants hung too loosely over his thin hips, the cloth shiny with wear and stained with old food. The old man stood unsteadily on scuffed velvet slippers. The chipped and dented black cane he clutched in his gnarled left hand was more than an affectation.

This high-toned fruitcake’s dirty with more than money, Jack groused. He’s got enough cabbage to own this palace, but he can’t even clean up for his guests.

“Take it easy, Jack,” I silently replied. “He’s old. And he doesn’t look well.”

Well, stand back, this geezer looks like he’s going to peg out any second now.

At first glance, Chesley’s gaze seemed almost fearful. But the man brightened with recognition when he saw my aunt.

“Sadie,” he whispered.

The old man’s rheumy eyes shined, and, for a moment, I could see a glimpse of that brilliant blue Sadie had mentioned from her memories.

Leading with his cane, Peter Chesley stumbled forward to greet us. Only then did I realize how frail he truly was. I felt my aunt stiffen when he confronted us, heard her catch her breath in surprise. But she quickly recovered from her initial shock. With a sincere smile Sadie Thornton stepped forward to take her old lover’s thin arm.

“Peter, how good to see you again.”

“Good to see you, too, my dear, dear, Sadie.”

Chesley’s voice was as wispy as his frame, his lungs barely providing enough air for his words to be heard over the howl of the storm.

“Let’s get out of the cold. We can talk inside,” Sadie said.

Deftly, she turned the man around and led us back into the house. I expected (and hoped for) light, warmth, hot tea—perhaps even a cozy fire roaring in a welcoming hearth. But my first sensations upon entering Prospero House were the pervasive smell of mildew, the oppressive feelings of cold and dampness. My surroundings more resembled a crumbling tenement than a century-old Newport mansion. Once stately, the house was literally disintegrating through age and neglect.

The interior entranceway was dominated by a grand staircase, which flowed down from a second-floor balcony in a gentle curve. The carpeted steps, obviously a deep burgundy at one time, had become a muddy brown, the cloth frayed and dotted with patches of mold.

The theme of the decor was obviously nautical. The bare stone walls were decorated with odd maritime knickknacks, including a harpoon, and massive oil paintings of tall ships from three centuries. On a heavy oak table, I noticed an antique brass ship bell. Next to it a glass display case brimmed with yachting cups and sailing trophies, their silvers and golds faded under countless layers of dust.

A drumming noise beat against our ears, a staccato thump like the beating of a heart. The sound came from a steel tub in the corner, placed there to catch large drops of water that plunged in a steady stream through a hole in the ceiling high above the stairs.

Peter Chesley noticed my stare. “The upper wings are sealed off. There’s no one up there. It’s quite uninhabitable.” He said this in a conversational tone, but when his pale eyes glanced at the stairs, a shadow crossed his face. “I haven’t been able to climb stairs for a year or more. Arthritis.”

Hobbling with obvious pain, the man led us through a large door to the left of the stairway. “I’ve moved my bedroom down to the first floor,” he remarked. “It’s a small room off the kitchen, but it suits me just fine.”

Despite his unkempt appearance and the dilapidated condition of his home, I was struck by Chesley’s dignity, the air of shabby gentility he carefully maintained. Yet there was also a furtive nervousness about the man, which I found baffling. I suspected the tension might be caused by our presence—since it was fairly obvious Mr. Chesley didn’t make a habit of entertaining guests.

We stepped through the archway with carved oak supports and found ourselves in the manor’s library. Illuminated by the flicking fire in a massive stone hearth, the library was nearly the size of our display floor at Buy the Book. It boasted a vaulted ceiling with oak cross beams and a tall grandfather clock, which ticked loudly in one corner, its oddly shaped pendulum swinging in an arc behind cut leaded glass.

The sheer size of the manor’s collection was impressive. Thousands of books lined the dark oak shelves. Along one shadowy wall near the clock, some portraits had been strategically hung—framed oils and old, posed photographs of men and women I assumed were Chesley ancestors.

This dump is duller than a gravesight, Jack complained in my head. And I should know.

“Take it easy, Jack.”

I haven’t seen a joint this wrecked since I was hired to make a drop at a run-down tenement for a blackmailed client.

“One of your cases?”

Yeah, baby, you can look it up.

“Why don’t you tell me now? This place is creeping me out. Frankly, I could use the distraction.”

Well, let’s see now, how did that case start?…I got a visit from the vice president of a hat company. Short guy with a dopey face. Had a proclivity for two-toned shoes and carnations in his lapels. He was stepping out on his wife, who also happened to be the daughter of the company’s owner.

“What a winner…”

Turns out Mr. VP had been doing the horizontal tango with a real piece of work. The floozie had secret photos taken of their hot dates, and she threatened to send the photos to his wife unless he cooperated.

“What did she—the floozie, I mean—want?”

In exchange for the incriminating photos and their negatives, Mr. Exec was supposed to pack five thousand dollars in small bills into a grocery bag and slap a few heads of lettuce on top—I gotta say, that piece of the puzzle did crack me up.

“What?”

Lettuce on lettuce.

“I don’t get it.”

What’s not to get, baby? Lettuce is the lingo for money.

“Oh…yes, that’s right, you’ve used that term before.”

Jack sighed. Try to keep up with me, doll, would you? So, anyway, Mr. VP is supposed to prepare this bag, then leave it in front of an apartment house door and knock three times. The door’s supposed to open, the bag goes in, and if the money counts up okay, then an envelope with the photos is supposed to come sliding out right to him from under the same door.

“Sounds straightforward.”

Sure, but when the exec hears the address, he gets spooked and hires me to make the drop. So I dress in Mr. VP’s tailored overcoat and matching fedora and take the bag of lettuce to the designated address.

“Where was it?”