The Ghost and Mrs. McClure

CHAPTER 21

Booked

She thought most men were weak and trusted her brains to slide her through anything.

—Ed Exley on Lynn Bracken, L.A. Confidential by James Ellroy, 1990

I PUT THE call through to Shelby Cabot’s room at Finch’s Inn. After five rings, I heard Shelby fumble for the receiver and manage a tired “Hello?”

Double murder, it seems, can take a lot out of a gal.

“Ms. Cabot, this is Penelope Thornton-McClure.” My voice actually sounded steady despite the fist that would not stop squeezing my stomach. “I’m sorry to bother you, but something urgent has come up.”

“Mrs. . . . McClure?” Shelby said through a yawn. I could hear the rustle of Fiona’s silk sheets. “What time—”

“I found something in the store,” I said. “I believe it belongs to you.”

“I’m so sorry, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied, wide awake now. The woman’s condescending tone had regained consciousness as well, “I’m certainly not aware of losing anything. Describe it,” she snapped, “would you?”

Drop the bomb, Jack said in my head.

“It’s an item you left here on the night Timothy Brennan died. I’m sure it was what you came here to look for last night. You seemed so upset, and I did want to help you, but Mr. Franken arrived and—well, I’d wanted to speak to you privately.”

There was a long pause. Jack nudged me. Go on, doll, you’re doing fine.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said with feigned bafflement. “I must be mistaken. I wanted to help, you understand? But this medical item probably belongs to someone else. I feel so silly . . . I’m so sorry to have bothered you.”

“No, no, Mrs. McClure, I’m glad you called. As you know, I’m here to represent the interests of Salient House—and under the most unusual circumstances!”

Shelby was trying hard to sound cheerful. But even over a phone line, I could sense the strain. She let out a little laugh, but the edge of it seemed raw, like a section of scraped flesh with its nerve endings exposed.

“Timothy Brennan was one of our authors, a member of our publishing family. If this call involves the late Mr. Brennan or Salient House in any way, then I’ll be glad to come over and settle this matter right away.”

“Very good,” I said. “Shall we say fifteen minutes?”

“I . . . I may need more time. And I’d like to first ask you—”

Hang up fast, barked Jack.

“Fifteen and not a minute less or I’ll be closed.” I hung up before Shelby could make another peep.

Good job, babe. Now set the scene.

I did what Jack instructed, turning out all the store’s interior illumination except for the security lights and fire exit signs.

Drunk tanks, interrogation rooms, and jail cells are grim for a reason, Jack told me. Make this place dark as a dungeon. Pump some fright into her.

Nature was cooperating. Outside, the night was moonless, and leftover clouds from last night’s storm obstructed the usual burgeoning firmament. At this late hour on a Sunday, Cranberry Street was deserted, all the shop windows dark. I stood near the front door, peering through the glass. Behind me, the interior of Buy the Book seemed lost in a pall of shadows.

“Shelby wanted more time to dress,” I whispered very softly, so close to the glass my breath was making fog. “Why did you make me tell her fifteen minutes or not at all? What’s the point of rushing her?”

The time really doesn’t matter. What does is that you set this parley on your turf, on your terms, and at your convenience. You woke her up in the middle of the night—she’s disoriented, her judgment’s bad. Right now she’s stumbling down Cranberry Street, wondering why she’s out in the middle of the night in the first place.

She’s out there because you, Penelope, are pulling her strings like a puppetmaster. You’ve already taken control of the grilling session, and she hasn’t even arrived yet.

I blinked. What Jack said about “control” was pretty funny, considering I felt completely out of control right now. But I had to admit, his interrogation techniques impressed me. They were nothing like the stuff I usually saw on television cop shows, where good-cop/bad-cop was often the extent of the strategy. That game wouldn’t do me much good tonight. Sure, I could act the part of the marshmallow—but my hard-nosed counterpart was going to be out of sight if not completely missing in action.

“What next?” I silently asked.

Perps are all different, said Jack. And different things get under their skins. Degradation worked on Nazi officers when we had to break them during the war. We tore off their medals and insignias, stripped them of their uniforms—even their skivvies. Butt-naked, even storm troopers lose their swagger.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Jack, but I’m not ripping Shelby’s clothes off when she comes through the door.”

Too bad for me.

“Get on with it, Jack.”

Play off her prejudices. Judging from her treatment of you, Shelby pretty much thinks you’re a doormat—a dopey dime-store hick. So act like one. Play the dull sap and she’ll get blabby, thinking it won’t matter ’cause you’re just a dump chump waiting for the bump.

“Huh?”

Forget it.

Actually, Jack’s words—the part before dump, chump, and bump, anyway—did make sense. Burying one’s light under a bushel was the biblical phrase. It was the tactic I used during those difficult years in New York City—at the office and in my marriage: unquestioning deference to authority allowing conniving competitors and in-laws to take their worst sniping slices out of my flesh without saying a word back. That was me, all right. I told myself it was the right thing to do, the best way to evade the ugliness of confrontation, and to avoid bruising the fragile egos of my superiors, my husband, and my in-laws. I never set out to become a doormat in the process. But obviously I had.

Keep things in balance, doll, Jack said, breaking into my thoughts. Doormats don’t raise a kid solo, and they don’t take risks to save a relative’s failing business. You’re no bum taking a dive. You got the will, all right, and the heart, you just never had the means—or more like the meanness.

I wanted to reply, but Shelby Cabot was suddenly in front of me, just beyond the pane, her features pinched and pale under newly applied makeup, her short, raven hair scraped back into a tight ponytail. I opened the door and held it. She pushed past me fast, her eyes avoiding mine.

The door closed and I turned. Shelby stripped off her raincoat and draped it over a display. Under the Burberry, she wore dark tailored slacks and a cashmere sweater.

“Now Mrs. McClure,” she said. “I’m here. Whatever is this about?”

Shelby Cabot’s condescending tone made me want to shrink away under the counter, but I thought of my son and put on the mask.

“I’m so glad you came tonight, Shelby . . . may I call you Shelby? Good. And you can call me Pen. That’s what my friends call me, and I do consider us friends.”

Shelby’s brow furrowed. Good. She was obviously hoping to intimidate me, aiming to take control through her superior demeanor. My sudden shift to cheerful, friendly friend seemed to throw her off balance.

Now get going with the dumb hick act, advised Jack. Really start yammering. Talk her ear off, but don’t give her a chance to peep until she’s practically itching to shoot off her mouth, too.

“I just didn’t know what to do at first,” I babbled. “I found this strange thing, and I didn’t know what it meant or where it came from! Then I was watching the news with my aunt—you know my aunt, Sadie—and I saw the most disturbing thing . . .”

My words came faster than the side-effects list on a commercial for prescription antidepressants. And Shelby Cabot’s head was bobbing like a dashboard puppy’s.

“I saw that Mrs. Franken had been arrested by the police for killing her father!” I continued. “You did hear that, didn’t you? Well, that’s such a strange thing to happen in a town like this, and what I found was strange, too, so I thought maybe because both things were so . . . so—”

“Strange.”

“Yes—strange—that maybe these two things were somehow connected. And then there was that hit-and-run—”

Shelby’s eyebrow went up. “Hit-and-run?”

“Right here in front of the store. But that couldn’t really be connected with anything, now, could it?”

“I suppose not, Mrs. McClure. You said—”

“I found a strange thing? I most certainly did!”

“Where is it, then?” Shelby asked, her tone impatient.

“Where’s what?” I asked blankly.

Pouring on the syrup a little thick, doll.

“Oh, you mean that thing!” I exclaimed. “Well, I guess I thought it best to leave it where I found it. . . .”

As my voice trailed off, I watched Shelby carefully.

You do scatterbrained swell, said Jack. Just like Gracie Allen.

I wasn’t quite sure whether to take that as a compliment.

After a moment, Shelby squinted at me, as if she couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or disgusted. Then with the flourish of a woman completely confident in her superiority, she turned on her heel and swiftly walked back to the community events space, straight to the women’s room.

Jackpot, baby. She’s going for it.

I followed right behind. “I mean it was such a strange thing. So very strange!” Now I was Doris Day. “A strange, strange thing . . .”

Shelby charged right into the bathroom. I entered, too, squinting against the fluorescent glare. Without hesitating, she went right for the paper towel dispenser anchored to the wall. She popped open the cover and reached inside, behind the large roll. She felt around for a moment but came up empty.

Bingo, said Jack. That’s exactly where Josh Bernstein found the syringe.

“Oh,” I said, wringing my hands. “Silly me. You’re looking for it there. I moved it the other day. Put it in a safe place.”

“But I thought—”

Before Shelby could say another word, I spun on my heels and rushed out of the women’s room, my nerves shaking as I raced through the large community events space and toward the register counter.

“Safe place!” I called. “Right over here!”

I exhaled with relief when I’d finally made it to the designated spot. Shelby took the bait. She was right on my heels.

“Where did you put the syringe, Penelope?” she said. Her voice was no longer arrogant. It was low and harsh. Ugly. Threatening.

I turned to face her, my hands no longer flapping, my tone no longer flighty. I forced my gaze to lock evenly with hers.

“Why Shelby, I never said it was a syringe.”

Shelby blinked. Her confident mask faltered. I took a step toward her. She backed away.

“How many bottles did you contaminate with the nut extract?” I asked. “One or two? Or all of them?”

Shelby took another step back. Then she raised her chin and looked down her nose at me.

“Enough,” she replied. “I almost laughed out loud when you personally handed him one of the tainted bottles.” Then Shelby frowned, her eyes distant. “But I used a little too much peanut oil, I’m afraid. Salient House lost a very profitable author. But then, they were going to lose him anyway.”

You nailed her, kid, now keep her yammering, get her to finger lover boy. Confess to being in on Josh’s murder.

Shelby looked at me. “You probably won’t believe this, but I didn’t mean to kill Timothy Brennan. I only wanted to make him sick, too sick to make his asinine announcement—”

“About dropping the Shield series?”

“That franchise was just starting to pay off again. Even the backlist was moving. It would have been such a blow to my company—”

“To Kenneth, you mean, since it was Kenneth Franken who actually wrote those last three Jack Shield novels. The franchise was a success because of Kenneth’s ghostwriting work. And that’s who you really cared about, wasn’t it?”

More of Shelby’s composure melted.

Remember, said Jack. Poke a few holes in her armor and she’ll deflate like a balloon.

“How did you find out about Kenneth’s ghostwriting?” Shelby demanded.

“I can read, Shelby. And so can a lot of other people. I saw how he’d mined The Neglected to jump-start the Jack Shield series again. But it was only a matter of time before someone else—someone in the press—made the connection and figured out that the last three novels were ghostwritten, especially with Kenneth Franken accompanying Brennan on his author tour.”

I watched Shelby’s wincing reaction.

“Oh, I get it now. Bringing Franken along was your idea, wasn’t it? So you’d have a stand-in waiting in the wings when Timothy Brennan collapsed. You were just waiting to drag Kenneth Franken in front of a microphone and reveal to the world that he really wrote those last three books, weren’t you?”

“Kenneth is weak,” said Shelby. “He refused to stand up to his father-in-law. Refused to promote himself and his writing. He’s a literary genius, so he’s far too sensitive when it comes to these things. It’s a tough business. He doesn’t understand how tough.”

“I see. So you graciously stepped in, because Kenneth needed someone with brains to manage his career. Someone like you. And Josh Bernstein? How did he fit into all this? Why did he have to die?”

“Josh was always ambitious,” Shelby replied. “But not smart. He figured out that Kenneth and I—well, you know what he figured out. That was bad enough, but he wouldn’t stop there.”

“He saw you tampering with the water bottles that night and then rush into the women’s room,” I guessed. “He knew you hid something in there.”

“I tried to distract him, sent him off on that fool’s errand for throat spray. But it didn’t work.”

“So Josh was never part of your plan.”

“He had plans of his own. Blackmail. I told him I’d meet his demands if he planted the syringe in Deirdre’s luggage. He did as he was told, but poor Josh met with an accident before I could return the favor. Not my fault.”

My eyes drifted to the floor. Then I smiled. Shelby must be running out of clothes, because she was wearing the same shoes she’d had on earlier—I could see the brick-red mud from Embry’s lot still on them.

“You were the one who stole the truck,” I said as soon as the realization came. “You were the one who ran Josh down.”

Shelby smiled, tight-lipped. In the dim light, with her hair raked back, her face resembled a skull. “You think you know a lot—”

“For a small-bookstore owner?”

“And as a small-bookstore owner, Mrs. McClure, you ought to know exactly what you’re messing with when you mess with me. Salient House is the largest publisher of fiction in the English-speaking world. How long would your little independent bookstore survive without access to novels by Maxwell Cushing, Louise Harper Mars, Anne Wheat, and all the other big best-sellers we publish, along with their backlists? You don’t have a syringe. You don’t have anything. And if you make a nasty accusation you can’t prove, I’ll make sure Salient House sees you as a bad risk and cuts you off—completely!”

I shrugged. “Well, Ms. Cabot, I admit that losing George Young as a sales rep would be sad, but we’d simply place our order through Ingram. Or Baker and Taylor. As an independent store, Salient House can’t very well tell those independent distributors who to sell to. And if they tried, let me see now—what would our hick-town lawyer call that? Restraint of trade, maybe?”

Shelby was fast losing her composure. Her empty threats weren’t scaring the chick from the sticks. She glared at me, looking trapped.

Time to pull the trigger, toots. She still hasn’t spilled her guts.

“So how could you do it, Shelby? Murder? Double murder? Is Kenneth Franken really worth it? You must really love him.”

Shelby’s brow furrowed; her lips slightly quivered.

“That’s none of your business,” cried Shelby. “Just tell me what you want. I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

Keep goring the bull, babe.

“Shelby, isn’t the real question: Does Kenneth love you? I mean, if he really loved you, then why is he in Providence right this minute, trying to find a lawyer for his wife? And not with the woman who murdered for him?”

This is it. She’s going to finger Franken as her accomplice .

“He’ll come around,” Shelby said through clenched teeth. “He loved me once. He’ll love me again. Once he sees what I’ve done for him. Once I tell him. And I will, after his wife’s good and convicted.”

I did my best to maintain my composure, but I couldn’t help at least blinking in surprise. “You mean it’s over? Between you and Kenneth?”

“Not over. Just interrupted. He pretends to love his wife, but I know how he really feels—about her. About me.” Shelby’s eyes became glassy, creepy. “You’re just like Kenneth,” she rasped. “You eat the sausage but you don’t have a clue what it takes to kill the pig. I used my networking contacts to introduce Kenneth to the right people, in New York and in Hollywood. He has an agent now. Because of me. He’s in negotiations with Visionwerks to write a feature film because of me—”

“But the film deal is based on the Jack Shield novels, isn’t it?” I pointed out. “And Timothy Brennan was the one who controlled all the rights? So his consent would be needed for any film deal to be made.”

“Brennan was an egomaniac. And he’d become lazy. He didn’t want to write the books anymore, but he wanted to take the credit and most of the money. And then he became angry—and jealous—that the books Kenneth wrote were so much better, so much more popular, than his own.”

“So that’s why Brennan was ending the series,” I guessed. “He didn’t want his son-in-law—the high-and-mighty ex-college professor—to show him up.”

“He was a stupid old bastard!” said Shelby. “All Brennan had to do was keep his mouth shut and let the Hollywood deal go through. Everything would have been fine! Brennan would have made lots of money, and Kenneth would have started a new career on the West Coast—far from Brennan and that doggy-faced wife of his.”

“Then you really did use the right amount of oil, didn’t you, Shelby?” I said. “Enough to kill Brennan, because deep down you knew he’d never let Kenneth succeed.”

“So what?” Shelby said. “I’m glad Timothy Brennan’s dead. And you should be, too. Look what it’s done for your store!”

Keep going, kid. Hang in there.

“I understand now,” I said with feigned sympathy, trying not to throw up. “You did it for love . . . for Kenneth . . . and to save the Jack Shield franchise.”

Shelby nodded slowly, clearly skeptical of my act, but hopeful, too—and desperate for an ally. “Do you see what I was up against, Mrs. McClure? Do you really see?”

“Yes, of course! A great literary talent like Kenneth Franken was being crushed by the selfish ego of a”—I nearly bit my tongue—“a foolish has-been. Somewhere along the way, you and Kenneth had fallen in love. You had an affair with him, but he went back to his wife, so you devised a plan to change the order of the universe, tilt the earth so he’d roll back into your lap, bringing the Shield franchise right along with him. How am I doing, Shelby? Am I right?”

Shelby’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You seem to understand everything, which tells me that maybe you do have the syringe—the real syringe.” She held out her hand. “Give it to me. Now.”

“No, Shelby,” I said. Slowly, my stupid grin flat-lined. Now it was Shelby’s turn to yammer on like a crazy person.

“You can’t prove anything!” she cried. “Even if you have the syringe. Why would I kill Brennan, anyway? What possible motive could I have? I’m not the one profiting from Brennan’s death—you are. You’re the one who handed Brennan the tainted bottle, a moment that was caught on tape, by the way. Have you seen CNN lately? If I were the police, it’s you I would arrest.”

“But you’re the one who knew how particular Brennan was about his appearances, so you didn’t return my calls on purpose—to make sure there’d be chaos when you all arrived. It was you who set aside those tainted bottles and you who told Deirdre to inform the rest of us, so you wouldn’t be implicated,” I said when her tirade ended. “Of course, nobody will believe anything Deirdre says, given what she’s charged with. But surely Kenneth suspects you. He might even go to the police himself.”

“There’s where you’re dead wrong. I know Kenneth. He’s a brilliant, attractive man, but he’s far too idealistic. Too wrapped up in ‘doing the right thing’ to see that getting Brennan out of the way is the right thing. So I didn’t involve him. Oh, he had his suspicions, even started questioning me that night he followed me to your store. But I denied having anything to do with Brennan’s death, and he believed me. He knows nothing, Mrs. McClure. But even if he did have his suspicions, he would never tell anyone. Not after all I’ve done for him.”

“All you’ve done,” I said. “Oh, that’s right. You made a few phone calls. And then, of course, you tried to wreck his marriage. Can’t forget that one. And now you want to make him an unwilling beneficiary to a murdered father-in-law and a wife who’s about to become a convicted killer. A wife he clearly still loves and has chosen to stick by.”

I wasn’t very good at condescension, but I was learning.

Shelby’s face became a primitive mask of harsh lines and dark shadows. “I warn you, Mrs. McClure. In games like the one you want to play with me, I play to win. And I play rough. I noticed you have a little boy. Accidents happen to little boys all the time.”

Steady, Penelope. Steady.

My fists were clenched so hard I felt my fingernails breaking the skin of my palms.

“And if you plan to tell anyone about our conversation,” Shelby continued, “it’s your word against mine.”

“And mine,” said a male voice. It echoed through the room so loudly Shelby let out a startled scream.

Officer Eddie Franzetti stepped out into the open. He’d been listening to our entire conversation from behind the life-size Timothy Brennan standee. Slowly Eddie lifted his hand to reveal his police radio.

“I alerted Chief Ciders to the frequency,” he informed Shelby. “There’s a recorder running at the other end of the line, and one right here in my hand, too. And if I know my dispatcher, there are at least seven more of us “hicksville” policemen listening in on bands all over Quindicott. Just in case my own testimony isn’t good enough.”

For the past fifteen minutes, I’d been carefully tearing strips from Shelby’s perfect little corporate girl mask. Now the remaining tatters had been ripped completely away.

Tonight, it was only Eddie and I and a few small-town cops who saw her for the monster she really was. But the whole world was going to see it soon. And that realization sent Shelby over the edge.

“You bitch!” she screamed, lunging for my throat. “You set me up!”

The force of her charge sent us both flying, right into Eddie, who tumbled backward, over a nearby chair. Penguin editions of Conan Doyle rained down on me as I heard Eddie’s head crack into some shelves.

Shelby’s fists began punching at my face and torso. I tried to hide my head in my hands, but it wasn’t working.

Fight, dollface. Fight!

I drew up my knee, driving it into her belly. When she recoiled, I positioned my feet and kicked with all my strength.

Shelby soared away, crashing backward against the long counter. I didn’t see it right away, but her fingers closed on a razor-sharp weapon—the box cutter I’d used to rip open the last carton of Brennan hardcovers.

As I struggled to my feet, I glanced toward Eddie, but he was out cold. Then I saw Shelby, waving the blade in front of her.

I don’t know what in the world got into me, but I suddenly heard myself screaming, “Another bitch who wants a piece of me! No freaking way!”

Then I launched myself. The ferocity of it must have momentarily stunned Shelby because she froze in place. My foot kicked out, connecting with the wrist holding the blade, and her arm flew back. But she reacted instantly, swinging the other arm down, and her balled-up hand connected with the side of my head, sending me into the counter.

As I felt a blow against my back, my hand touched the edge of something resting on the ledge. I blindly grabbed the object. Securing it in both hands, I whipped around, swinging it at my attacker’s head with every blessed ounce of wrath I could muster. With a loud crack, it connected, and Shelby Cabot crumbled like the yellowed edges of a cheap paperback.

I stumbled, suddenly weak. Gasping, I leaned against the counter to steady myself. Down the aisle, I heard a groan. Officer Franzetti slowly struggled to his feet. He shook his head clear, then rubbed the back of it. No doubt there was a bump the size of a grapefruit forming—just like mine.

I watched him hobble over on what looked like a badly sprained ankle. We both looked down at the woman on the ground, then at the book I had clutched in my hand. When he read the title, Eddie burst out laughing.

It seems I’d smacked Shelby down with one of the last copies of Shield of Justice—the book Shelby had been employed to publicize, and the very copy I had gotten out as my gift to Eddie.

“Good choice,” said Eddie, “although don’t you think Crime and Punishment would have been more appropriate?”

“And heavier,” I agreed. “Of course, I didn’t have much time to make my selection. Maybe next time.”

Sirens wailed down Cranberry Street and revolving flashes streaked through the picture window, painting the back wall of the store in red and white light.

“I’m glad it’s over,” I said, massaging my aching back. “Thanks, Eddie.”

“No problem,” he said. “And hey, now that you’re not in trouble anymore, I think I’ll have time to read that Jack Shield book.”

I handed it to him. Then I closed my eyes and silently thanked the original model.

Don’t be modest, babe. You did the hard part all by yourself.

Rubbing his ankle, Eddie looked down at our knocked-cold murderer. “What the hell,” he told me with a shrug as four Quindicott patrolmen burst through the front door, “at least we can honestly tell the Staties we did it by the book.”