The Ghost and Mrs. McClure

CHAPTER 4

A Drink before Dying

I’m just not sure we need this . . . mess right now.

—Angie Gennaro to Patrick Kenzie, Gone Baby Gone by Dennis Lehane, 1998

I WAS STANDING next to the refreshment table. It had been dragged, on Brennan’s orders, to the back end of the room—unappealingly close, in my opinion, to the rest rooms. Before me, a surreal sea of battered fedoras bobbed with excitement. Murmurs of approval rose and fell amid the dark ties and three-piece suits.

Timothy Brennan was leaning forward against a carved oak podium (which I’d bought for a song at a Newport estate sale), captivating the crowd with his prepared speech:

“Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid,” Brennan read aloud. “Such words could have been applied easily to my fictional private detective, Jack Shield, a man who was a complete man and a common man, and above all a man of honor—by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it.”

I winced.

Brennan had just asserted that “Such words could have been applied easily to Jack Shield.” But he’d somehow forgotten to mention that they were Raymond Chandler’s exact words in his famous essay describing the quintessential detective.

I searched out Brainert, seated near the front. Not surprisingly, he was shaking his head with all the perfected disappointment of an English professor reviewing a badly footnoted paper. He caught my eye and together we mutely mouthed “Chandler. The Simple Art of Murder.”

I shrugged and lifted my hands palm up, as if to say, Perhaps it had been an innocent oversight.

Brainert rolled his eyes.

J. Brainert Parker (the J. was for Jarvis, a first name he’d utterly rejected since age six) was one of my closest childhood friends. A single, gay St. Francis College English professor in his thirties with a stringbean body, blanched complexion, and self-described “Ichabod Crane” style, he was also (as Sadie put it) one of those “relentlessly sober” types.

Brainert claimed to be a distant relative of the Providence occult author H. P. Lovecraft; and, like his supposed ancestor, he was extremely well-read. All the regular customers respected his opinions. And his enthusiasm for out-of-print Holmes books kept the store’s lights on—his most recent purchase being a forty-eight-dollar copy of a P. F. Collier & Son Holmes collection decorated red cloth hardcover, circa 1903.

In any event, I was feeling pretty badly about Brennan’s unhappiness with our bookstore in general and me in particular. Before his speech, I’d actually tried to make peace by fetching him a cup of coffee and a plate of the Cooper Family Bakery goodies. The incoming guests were already digging into the food, and I was afraid Brennan wouldn’t get to sample any of it.

Wrong. He’d practically slapped the five-nut tarts and Vermont maple doughnuts out of my hand, barking that he never ate anything before, during, or after his lectures.

“Are you running a bookstore or a diner?” he’d snapped at me. “Water only. Just be sure there’s water.”

Okay, I admit it: Timothy Brennan wasn’t exactly the nicest author on the best-seller list. But I was willing to forgive his rudeness, his pomposity, his blustery impatience, even his quoting of Chandler without mentioning Chandler. Why? Because I myself was a huge fan of his books, purple prose and all. Maybe it was because Jack Shield could always say the sorts of things I wouldn’t. Do the sorts of things I couldn’t.

Whatever the reason, I enjoyed the Shield yarns as much as those old hard-boiled detective tales in the pulps of the twenties and thirties that my father had collected. Brennan himself hadn’t been published in Black Mask (the magazine that had launched writers such as Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett), but he’d known some of the men who had, and he wrote in their tradition. That was good enough for me. So like a pathetic kid defending some sports hero caught strung out on steroids, a part of me was still looking for excuses to defend the bad-behaving Brennan.

“It was back when I was wet-behind-the-ears reporter that I first met and then knocked around with Jack Shepard,” Brennan continued to tell the audience. “The model for my fictional detective was a tough-talking, no-nonsense, street-smart private eye dedicated to uncovering the truth, no matter where it leads.”

Some members of the audience actually mouthed these familiar words right along with Brennan. They’d been part of the jacket copy for decades. Hoots and applause followed.

“Jack Shepard left me his case files. Changing the names to protect the guilty, I used them as the basis for my stories—”

A deep voice interrupted: You did what?! You “used” them for your stories? Then you stole them, you low-down, dirty grifter. No one “left” you those files.

Every muscle in my body froze in mortification. Some man had just heckled this beloved author. At my store! Brennan would never forgive me! And the crowd would tear the place to pieces!

I waited for the typhoon to hit.

But it didn’t.

Brennan simply continued his speech. Ignoring the heckler, the audience obviously followed Brennan’s lead.

“Lately, readers have been asking me if the real Jack Shepard was the equal of fictional Jack Shield,” said Brennan. “I tell them that truthfully Shields is Shepard with Timothy Brennan mixed in. Shepard wasn’t exactly leading-man material, y’know.”

Yeah. Right. Not like you, ya bloated, barstool raconteur!

Once more, I braced for impact. Surely there would be a reaction this time. . . .

But Brennan disregarded the man—and so did his audience.

I scanned the crowded room, desperate to locate this deep-voiced pest. He sounded very close. But the only people standing near me, in front of the refreshment table, were women—Linda Cooper-Logan and Fiona Finch, the sixty-year-old owner of Finch’s Inn, the only hotel in Quindicott.

“Shepard had a ton of weaknesses and sad problems—”

Oh, and you didn’t, ya degenerate, gambling ginhead!

What in heaven’s name is going on? I thought. Was I the only one hearing this?

“And, frankly, he wasn’t that smart,” continued Brennan. “It took me—my writing, my words, and my ingenuity—to make him a hero that would span nineteen best-sellers and inspire two television shows. You might say I’m responsible for adding the heroism to the antihero.”

No, Tim-bo. Sounds to me like you’re responsible for stealing my stories, my life, and making a mint on it!

With a nauseating abruptness, I knew why no one else was reacting to the voice. And why I was the only one hearing it.

That voice wasn’t in the room; it was inside my own head.

But how can that be? How? I asked myself. It wasn’t my voice. Or my thoughts. I’d never thought such crude things in my entire life!

Of course you haven’t, said the male voice. You’re one of those nice-thinking, fair-play Janes—gullible as a corn-fed calf and just about as defenseless.

“Where are you?” I rasped in a loud whisper, unable to understand how the man had answered me when I hadn’t spoken a word.

Linda and Fiona looked at me with puzzled expressions.

“Where’s who?” asked Linda.

I shook my head. “Forget it,” I whispered.

“Jack Shepard and I were both working the mean streets,” Brennan continued. “Jack as a detective and me as a reporter. We were just regular guys walking a thin line between the world of respectability and the underworld of crime.”

HA!

I inhaled. Then exhaled. Joan of Arc heard voices, right? But they were probably nice, gentle, inspirational voices. Saintly voices.

I was the one walkin’ that thin line, ya drunken bum. You were the one rackin’ up debts at the track, bangin’ poor workin’ girls then callin’ the cops on them to get out of payin’, and drownin’ your tonsils in so much suds I’d have to pick you up off the taproom floor.

I closed my eyes and opened them again. This voice was certainly no saint. And it really wasn’t mine—at least not a voice from my conscious self. This left me with one conclusion: I was cracking up.

Get a grip, Penelope, I told myself. Refocus your attention!

As applause echoed off the walls, I concentrated on the crowd, scanning the mix of Quindicott townies, Providence professionals, and college kids, as well as Newport yacht-club and old-money types. All appeared entertained enough to shell out $27.50 each.

Then came the “no sale.”

Unlike every other enraptured member of the audience, the middle-aged blond standing at the back of the room in a cream-colored cashmere sweater with white fox trim appeared to be suffering through the speech, her delicate features sculpted into an anguished grimace.

I remembered she’d arrived late and brushed me off when I’d offered to find her a seat, asking instead for the rest room. Her face actually seemed familiar. Suddenly I placed it:

Anna Worth, the Newport cereal heiress.

Worth Flakes and Nuts had been the family’s claim to fame—it tasted somewhat like Wheaties but had nuts and dried fruit mixed in. Years ago she’d been involved in a scandal—typical eighties nightlife stuff, as I recalled, with shots fired at a boyfriend, a big publicized trial, and drug use afterward. It was odd to see her here in our little store, I thought—and not enjoying Brennan’s talk very much, either, from the look on her face.

“Folks always ask me what happened to Jack Shepard,” Brennan continued, “and I always had my stock answer: Jack Shepard let his weaknesses and, sorry to say, his stupidity get the better of him—”

Why you stinkin’, stealin’ son of a bitch! shouted the voice. The only thing that got the better of me was you—if you’re tellin’ me you swiped my case files instead of gettin’ off your lazy ass to look for me!

(Clearly, refocusing my attention hadn’t helped.)

“But it’s finally time to reveal the truth,” continued Brennan. Then he paused, taking time to look meaningfully into the camera. The audience seemed to collectively lean forward.

“In 1949, while Jack Shepard was working the case of a murdered army buddy, he vanished without a trace. Not even his body was found. For over fifty years now, I’ve wondered just what happened. Did the bad guys finally catch up with him? Did the corrupt authorities finally do Jack in? Or did someone set Jack up as a fall guy?”

Yeah, Tim-bo, ya smug-ass, tell them. I’d like to know myself.

“Shut up!” I rasped quietly to the voice in my mind, alarmed that I was losing my grip on reality. “Shut up! Shut up!”

Both Linda and Fiona again eyed me with concern. A few nearby guests even turned in their seats to deliver annoyed looks.

I felt the heat on my cheeks for the second time that night.

“Pen, are you okay?” Linda whispered. “Do you want to sit down?”

I shook my head.

“These questions will be answered in my next book,” Brennan said. “And my first nonfiction book. Ironic for an old reporter, eh? But the truth is”—Brennan paused to clear his throat—“for several years now I have been quietly investigating Jack’s final case and his mysterious disappearance, and the solution to the fifty-plus-years mystery is close to being solved.”

The audience clapped wildly. Brennan waved them down.

“Though Salient House and my fans have been clamoring for more Jack Shield mysteries, I am here to announce that Shield of Justice will be the very last novel of the series.”

Disappointed murmurs sounded. Brennan’s handsome son-in-law Kenneth rose from his seat in the front row and left the room. In the next seat, his well-dressed wife, Deirdre, watched him go with a clear look of distress on her plain face.

“It’s finally time to find out . . .”

As Brennan cleared his throat again, he pulled the throat spray Josh had bought and spritzed it into his mouth.

“It’s finally time to find out . . .”

Again he cleared his throat, and I realized with a start that what he really needed was some water. I reached behind me and let my fingers close on a plastic bottle resting on the refreshment table. With a quick twist, I unscrewed the cap, then stepped forward and set the bottle on the podium.

“About time,” Brennan griped low before I returned to my spot.

“As I was saying, it’s time to find out what happened to Jack Shepard and why, and to share that information with the world. My preliminary investigation shows that Jack Shepard’s movements in the final days before his disappearance led him to a rare-book shop right here in Quindicott. Yes. The last place Jack Shepard visited in 1949 was this very store!”

As outcries of delighted surprise rippled through the audience, I decided I was probably the most shocked person in the entire room. My eyes found Aunt Sadie, who was standing just inside the archway that led to the other side of the bookstore. She simply shrugged, as if she had no idea what all this was about.

Timothy Brennan seemed pleased with the reaction and took a long pause to chug the entire contents of the Sutter Spring water bottle. Then he opened his mouth to speak again. Suddenly his eyes bulged and his face grew very flushed. His lips moved, but only a hoarse croak emerged. The water bottle dropped from his stubby fingers, and Brennan reached up to clutch his throat.

I watched, horrified, as his jowly face turned scarlet, then paled.

“Mr. Brennan? What’s wrong?” cried someone seated close to him.

He pointed to his throat, then reached out to grasp the podium, as if to steady himself. But a moment later, both man and podium tumbled to the floor.

“Call a doctor!” someone shouted.

I pushed through the throng of panicked people, looked down, and saw Timothy Brennan, his face chalk, his mouth opening and closing as rapidly as it had all evening, but this time without sound, just a terrible rhythmic sucking noise like a plunger desperately trying to pull something out of a blocked drain.

“Get back, please!” I cried. “Give him room!”

The sea of gray suits and battered fedoras backed away to give the flailing author room. All except Shelby Cabot of Salient House and his daughter Deirdre in her burgundy suit. They both knelt over the gasping man, their expressions grim. Josh stood back, behind Shelby, watching with equally grim concern. Deirdre took Brennan’s hand.

The man’s features relaxed, and his chest rose as he took a deep breath. His color began to come back. Then his eyes fluttered open.

“I think he’s coming around,” said Deirdre.

Brennan’s eyes seemed to focus on the person standing right next to me—Milner Logan. With a terrified gasp, Brennan raised his hand, frantically waving it as if warding away some evil spirit.

“Jack!” rasped Brennan, staring right up at Milner, who was now clutching his fedora in a white-knuckled grip. “J-J-Jack Shepard. It c-c-can’t be. You’re dead. You’re dead!”

That’s when Brennan’s eyes closed. His face turned as gray as the fieldstone walls, and his rib cage collapsed with his last living breath.