The Ghost and Mrs. McClure

CHAPTER 14

Strangers in the Night

Somebody was nuts. I was nuts. Everybody was nuts.

None of it fitted together worth a nickel.

—Philip Marlowe, “Trouble Is My Business” by Raymond Chandler, Dime Detective magazine, August 1939.

OUTSIDE IN THE darkness, a trench-coated figure stood beyond the bookstore’s rain-splattered window. An open umbrella, tilted at an angle, masked the face.

“Who is it?” I whispered to Jack.

How should I know? I’m a spirit, not a psychic.

Tap, tap, tap went the person at the window once more. I stepped around the counter and into a cone of light cast by the ceiling fixtures. The big black umbrella moved, and I recognized the pretty pert face and short, shiny, raven hair of Shelby Cabot, the publicist from Salient House. She caught sight of me and waved.

“What should I say to her?” I whispered to Jack. “I mean, to get her to say what she might know about Josh and Deirdre and Kenneth?”

Just get her talking. About anything. Then turn the conversation where you want it, so she doesn’t get wise to being grilled.

“Okay,” I murmured, “wish me luck.”

Baby, you don’t need luck in this profession. What you need is brains, and you got plenty, so go to it.

I unbolted the door, and Shelby stepped in. “I know it’s late, Mrs. McClure,” she said as she shook the large umbrella, dripping water all over my newly restored plank floor. “I was strolling by the store and saw the lights on and, well—”

“Uh-huh,” I replied, frankly dubious that anyone would be “strolling by” on a night like this one.

Shelby pulled off her sopping raincoat and draped it over a nearby Shaker-style rocker. Dribbling water puddled in the cross-hatched seat.

“I heard sales were brisk today,” she said.

“Oh, yes.”

“How wonderful!” she exclaimed, though her forced grin gave me the impression she didn’t care in the least.

I turned to bolt the door, but something caught my attention: a man was loitering across the street, just beyond the dull beams of the streetlight on the corner. In my head, I whispered to Jack, “Who is that standing across the street?”

How should I know? he said.

“What kind of response is that?! You’re supposed to be a private eye. Go on over and find out!”

Can’t leave the premises, doll. Don’t ask me why.

“Why?”

Because I don’t have an answer.

Frustrated with Jack’s double-talk, I stared harder beyond the door’s pane, trying to make out the details of the dark silhouette, but I didn’t recognize the rain slicker, and the big hood was pulled up and around the man’s face.

I’d been peering through the window so intensely, I nearly jumped when Shelby spoke up behind me: “I don’t suppose you received that special order yet? The one I had sent directly from our warehouse?”

I turned to face her, noticing the woman’s gaze was not on me at all. She’d been looking at the figure across the street, too. When I answered, however, she immediately shifted her eyes to me.

“Actually, five hundred hardcovers arrived this morning,” I said.

“Isn’t it convenient the Salient House warehouse is just an hour away,” said Shelby. “Normally, an order like that would take much longer to fulfill.”

“Yes, I was surprised by the speed—but I was absolutely shocked by the amount of books in the order. I mean, last night, you said ‘a few’ more books would be charged to our account number. I can’t figure where ‘a few’ translates into twenty cartons.”

“Of course, Salient House will accept any returns—”

“To tell you the truth, when the delivery man rolled all of those boxes in this morning, I feared we’d never move so many copies. But we’ve already sold more than half the shipment. It turns out you were right to order so many.”

“I’m so glad,” Shelby replied. “I could see from the way you’d mismanaged the event room setup last night that you wouldn’t be on top of your inventory needs, either.”

Did she just take a shot at me? I wondered.

She aimed and fired, all right, Jack said in my head.

“Well, as new releases go, I can’t say that I have any experience managing inventory for a circumstance like this one,” I said politely, evading an accusation that her large order did force us into a position where we appeared to be exploiting an author’s sudden death.

The implication didn’t seem to bother Shelby in the least. “Of course, it’s understandable how the whole thing was just beyond your abilities to handle,” she answered breezily. “Isn’t it fortuitous the way it all turned out—that I was able to do the right thing for you and your store? At Salient House, we’re often exasperated by the provincial attitudes of our unsophisticated vendors, especially those independent booksellers not based in major urban areas. So many such booksellers just aren’t willing to take full advantage of a situation.”

In typical “corporate speak”—polite, evasive, and nonspecific—I guess the tragedy of Timothy Brennan’s death could be called a “situation.”

“This store is impressive,” Shelby said, moving suddenly from insulting to ingratiating. “And such a responsibility.”

“We try,” I said.

“Well, don’t feel bad about not knowing quite enough about the publishing business yet.” Shelby Cabot’s eyes locked on mine. “Just as long as you rely on the help of people like me.”

Was this woman actually trying to provoke me? I wondered.

If you’re gonna imitate a doormat, Jack barked in my head, the least you could do is stretch out on the floor so she can wipe her feet.

“I admit, Mr. Brennan’s signing was this store’s very first,” I said. “But I have had plenty of experience in the publishing business.”

“Really?” Shelby replied. She arched an eyebrow skeptically, even as she brushed a wet ringlet of black hair away from her high, smooth forehead.

“Oh, yes,” I continued, naming the publisher I had worked for, and a brace of popular authors with whom I’d worked in my days as a “publishing professional.”

As I rattled off the names, I realized it was an impressive list, even if my dealings with some of those talents would be casually dismissed as “past history”—because, unfortunately, these days publishing operated on the “What have you done for me lately?” principle. The key, of course, being the post-dot-bomb era’s interpretation of the word “lately,” which used to mean over the past five years, but now meant over the past six weeks (the length of time chain stores gave a book to catch on before it was sent back to the publisher’s warehouse in a DDS truck).

Unfortunately, by the time I was finished reciting my résumé, I felt cheap and hollow. Suddenly I was having a flashback to my worst days in that badly managed New York publishing office, where the overall dynamic was vintage John Bradshaw dysfunctional family.

In my experience, lazy, bad managers were the ones most impressed by the slick self-promoters. The hardest workers, who tended to be boring nose-to-the-grindstone types, were subsequently overlooked. My problem was that I’d been brought up to believe self-promotion was not, in fact, a virtue. Bragging, I’d been taught, was a form of conceit not to be encouraged, respected, or admired. And it’s something I still believe, frankly.

However, when the vulgar endeavor of blowing your own horn becomes the quickest road to advancement in an office, you’re sunk if you keep your mouth shut.

Style over substance, lip service over true service, self-promotion for rank promotion: I shudder to think how many offices in America are managed with this philosophy. But, I fear, it’s an inescapable reality. Thus, boring, dedicated workers go unrewarded—while slick, pushy operators are put in charge.

I actually felt my stomach turn as these memories of office politics washed over me. I wanted to believe I was over all this, that I’d put it firmly behind me with my move north. But Shelby had dragged me right back, down to her level. A few minor insults and I’d stooped to bragging in my own defense.

Don’t be so hard on yourself, said Jack. I got dragged down plenty in back alleys. Sometime there’s nothing you can do about it. Just make sure your punches land.

Okay, maybe I did land a good one: Shelby’s smile became a little more plastic, a little more forced, and I felt that sickly familiar sense of satisfaction. But my victory was fleeting. Women like Shelby were far better than I at this game.

“Interesting bit of experience you’ve had,” she snipped with the sort of creepy cheeriness one usually only hears in a gothic melodrama. “Too bad it’s all behind you. Don’t feel too bad about it, though. Not everyone can hack the big leagues.”

My fantasy about wringing her neck was interrupted, thankfully, by my own private dick. You’ve done a good job distracting her, doll. Now ask about Joshy boy.

Jack was right, of course—and he probably noticed that I’d done a good job distracting myself, too. Okay, I thought, back to business.

“It’s so very difficult to decide about people,” I said, trying hard to keep my delivery casual. “I mean, it takes a truly gifted manager to quickly judge who has the ‘right stuff’ and who is just going to be some total loser, you know? To judge right away who deserves your encouragement and help and who you should crush—for the good of the company, of course.”

“That’s very true.” Shelby’s eyes widened with glee.

Bingo! People like Shelby were fairly transparent. Nailing her “philosophy” on office politics wasn’t hard.

“I wonder, what’s your opinion of someone like Josh?” I asked. “Do you think he’ll make it?”

She flapped her hand. “Josh is a conniving little toady, if you want my unvarnished opinion.”

“Oh, by all means. Don’t hold back.”

“It’s nothing personal. I like him otherwise, you understand. He’s just typical of the kids coming out of college these days. Doesn’t want to listen to people above him—just wants responsibility handed to him. Like this very hot literary author the company’s putting on tour in January. Josh has got it in his head that he can direct the tour, take care of the author, and handle all the media appearances. Crazy. He’s been with the company less than a year, and he’s already lobbying me for a prime assignment like that. But I don’t trust him, frankly. And I think he’d do just about anything to get ahead.”

That gave me pause.

Okay, so I didn’t like Shelby, but I believed what she was saying where Josh was concerned—mainly because her summation was rapid-fire and not in the least forced. There was no sign of the plastic expressions or ingratiating fakeness of her previous exchanges. Nothing phony was present in her judgment of Josh; she’d meant what she’d said.

And what does that tell you? asked Jack.

“It tells me that Josh has a motive for doing something risky, like helping Brennan’s killer,” I silently told Jack, “if the risk helps him advance his career. But I don’t see any connection between Brennan’s death and Josh’s advancement. Unless he’s helping Shelby, and she’s the killer, but what motive would she have for killing Brennan? Her glory was in directing his big book tour—and now that’s over. Shelby had no motive to kill Brennan. None that I can see.”

There’s got to be a connection between Josh and the murderer. You just need to find more dots to connect, doll. So look for more dots.

I was about to ask Shelby more about Josh when I heard footsteps outside. I turned to see a hooded figure lunging toward the door.

I screamed. Shelby Cabot screamed. And the figure recoiled back.

Then he lunged forward again and jiggled the door handle, but found it locked.

“Who is it?” I cried. “Who are you?”

The man pulled down the hood of his L. L. Bean rain slicker and pointed to the handle of the locked door.

“It’s Kenneth!” Shelby said to me. “Kenneth Franken.”

I looked again. It was Kenneth Franken, the late Timothy Brennan’s son-in-law—though right now, with his soaked-through rain slicker and drooping hair, he more resembled a half-drowned lobsterman just finished with his traps.

I unbolted the door. As Kenneth stepped in, the downpour followed him. Rain splattered everywhere.

“I’m sorry I frightened you,” he said.

“Come in and get dry,” I told him.

As he came through the doorway, Kenneth slipped on the wet floor and grabbed my arm to steady himself.

“Excuse me,” he mumbled.

Kenneth Franken’s hand was cold—very cold, and he was soaked to the skin. Obviously, he had been out in the night a long time. I glanced across the street, but that loitering man was gone. I knew then that he had been that man.

How odd, I thought. Why would Franken lurk about in the rain? Why not just knock?

Franken turned to stare at Shelby Cabot. The woman wheeled, deliberately giving him her back, which Kenneth just stared at. So I stood staring at Kenneth. The silence continued until I, for one, was feeling rather embarrassed. I was about to say something to break the obvious tension when Shelby turned around and faced me.

“I am sorry to trouble you,” she said, running her hand through her wet hair. “But could I . . . freshen up somewhere?”

“Certainly,” I said, although her still-flawless makeup seemed Titanic proof to me.

“Upstairs?” she asked, gesturing.

“No. We have rest rooms on this level, beyond the events area near the emergency exit.”

Shelby Cabot nodded and walked off.

When she was out of earshot, Kenneth Franken spoke.

“I’m sorry about my behavior earlier today,” he began. “Getting so upset about the makeup case. With my wife so distraught, I’ve been under a strain. You understand, don’t you?”

“Of course I understand.”

“Good, good . . . uhm . . . yes . . . well . . . I came by tonight because”—he looked at the floor, then at the shelves, then off in the direction where Shelby had gone—“I was wondering if you knew anything at all about what my late father-in-law announced last evening. The matter about the real Jack Shepard disappearing in this town, maybe on these premises.”

Call me crazy, but it seemed awfully late for him to suddenly come by just to ask a question like that. He’d been here hours ago and hadn’t mentioned a thing about it.

Nevertheless, he’d asked me a direct question, so I searched my mind, sorting through my past experiences growing up in this town. I thought about Aunt Sadie, who’d inherited the store from her father, who’d inherited the store from his brother—a mysterious figure in the family whom I knew very little about.

The fact was, for this question, I’d need some help.

“Jack?” I said aloud, hoping the ghost would silently supply me some facts. But he clearly wasn’t offering any details at the moment.

“Yes, Jack Shepard,” said Kenneth, who assumed, of course, I had spoken to him.

“I’m sorry,” I said after a long pause—and complete silence from my ghost. “I really don’t know what Mr. Brennan was talking about. Of course, you could come back tomorrow and ask my aunt. Sadie’s memory reaches a lot farther back than mine.”

“Perhaps I shall. I do apologize for coming here so late, but I wanted to speak in private. There were so many people around today—you do understand?”

“Yes, of course,” I replied, feeling like he was trying awfully hard to make me not suspect him of anything, which, of course, made me certain he was guilty of something . “You’re welcome to come by anytime, Mr. Franken.”

“Thank you. . . .”

He paused, seeing Shelby Cabot emerge from the shadows of the events room. Her hair was combed, her makeup still perfect, but she didn’t seem noticeably “fresher”; in fact, she seemed more pale, more tense than before.

“I think we’ve troubled Mrs. McClure long enough for one evening,” Kenneth said. Then he handed Shelby her coat. “We should really be going now.”

The emphasis was on “we,” and despite the fact that Shelby Cabot looked like she wished to remain, good manners forced her to say good night.

“I’ll see you again, Mr. Franken?” I asked as neutrally as possible.

“Oh, yes,” he replied. “Detective-Lieutenant Marsh asked my wife and me to stay on for a few days . . . answer any questions that might arise . . . that sort of thing. And you know Deirdre wants to hold a press conference here—when the state medical examiner’s office releases their autopsy findings.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right. Well, good night, then,” I said. I opened the door and ushered the pair into the night.

Immediately, I spoke to the air. “Jack, hurry and follow them.”

Can’t.

“What do you mean, ‘can’t’?”

Through the window, I watched Shelby and Kenneth walk slowly down Cranberry Street, in the direction of Quindicott Pond and Finch’s Inn, which made sense, since they were both checked in there. Suddenly they stopped and began to argue.

“Come on, Jack, get a move on! Get out there!”

Penelope, listen to me. I can’t get beyond the walls and windows of this store. Believe me, doll, I would if I could. There’re plenty of places hipper than this cornball town.

“I don’t understand. Why don’t you just try?”

I have tried.

“And? What happens?”

Have you ever tried breathing on the bottom of the ocean? It’s like that for me, honey. Water, water everywhere—and I’m no fish. That’s how all-powerful I am. Getting noplace fast, and this joint’s my life raft . . . so to speak.

“Great.”

So, doll, you’re the one who’s gonna tail them.

“Me?!”

You saw it yourself. Shelby Cabot and Kenneth Franken behaved like they had something to hide. And a little eavesdropping will probably tell you what pretty quick. So get going.

“Jack, I don’t know—”

Don’t go limp on me now, baby. They know something. And the state’s suspect list could easily have your name on it, so you better get tough and get going. Your marks are going to be gone in a few.

“Crap!”

I hurried to the top of the stairs, where wooden pegs held the family coats. Instead of my traditional canary-yellow slicker, I reached for Sadie’s slate gray fisherman’s coat with a wide-brimmed hood—outerwear designed to stand up against stiff nor’easters. My choice was not guided by the weather, however. I needed the camouflage.

Down the stairs and out the door, I caught sight of my “marks” ahead of me on Cranberry Street. Kenneth and Shelby were slowly moving through the drenching rain, their silhouettes outlined by a nearby streetlight.

The air was raw. Gusts of chilly wind blew the pelting rain up under my hood, spattering drops against my face and dewing my black-framed glasses.

I walked at a brisk pace, though it took only a few steps to determine that my low-heeled shoes weren’t nearly as weather-resistant as my outerwear. In only a moment my feet became soaking wet. Fortunately, the wind and the rain were loud enough to muffle the sound of my footsteps as I began to catch up to Shelby and Kenneth.

“Is this how you tailed ‘marks’ when you were a detective, Jack?” I asked to dispel my nervousness. But before I even finished the question, I knew he wouldn’t reply.

I wanted to believe he’d lied to me, that he’d played me just to get me out here on a tail, but the gaping feeling of emptiness told me he’d been truthful. A void seemed to open up inside me, and I suddenly felt very alone.

“I wish you were here, Jack Shepard,” I murmured.

By now I was close enough to hear Kenneth’s and Shelby’s voices, though I couldn’t quite make out the words. They were agitated; that much was obvious. At one point, Kenneth reached out and grabbed Shelby’s elbow. He tried to push her forward, but she yanked her arm free. I dared to move a little closer.

“Brennan was a bastard . . .” I heard Kenneth say, his tone bitter. “He stood in the way . . .”

The rest of his words were lost in the downpour. Luckily the pair paused at the corner and faced one another. I moved closer, aware that darkness and rain were my only covers.

“Are you sorry you did it?” Shelby asked.

“Of course not,” said Kenneth. “I’d do it again. If only Tim had been reasonable, or even a little grateful, but ‘thank you’ just wasn’t in that man’s vocabulary.”

“Who cares if he never thanked you,” Shelby said, grabbing his wrists. “It doesn’t matter now. Think of the future. Now you can divorce Deirdre. We can have a life. Together.”

Now, this is interesting, I thought.

“Don’t be stupid, Shelby. The police know I had a motive. Deirdre saw to that. She told that lieutenant everything. Who do you think they’re going to arrest, if it comes to that?”

“Don’t worry, darling—”

Kenneth pulled his hands free of her grasp. “Stop it, Shelby!” Kenneth cried. “What’s done is done. It’s over now. All of it.”

Shelby stared at him in silence for a moment. I waited to hear what would come next, but a mechanical roar drowned out her words. A large truck, its driver most likely lost, thundered around the corner and down Cranberry—and I was standing in the street.

For a moment, I froze like the proverbial trapped deer as the glare of headlights bared down. I blindly leaped, falling into a shadowy stairwell just under the fire escape of Lew’s Plumbing and Heating Contractors, Inc.

I had successfully avoided being flattened by the truck or detected by my marks—unfortunately, I’d also landed face first in a puddle of water. Spitting in disgust, I rose to my knees, crawled up the steps, and peeked above the edge of the stairwell. But the rain-swept sidewalk under the streetlight was now deserted. Kenneth and Shelby were gone.