The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

“THAT CRASH CAME from upstairs!”

I moved toward the door. But before I took three steps, Peter Chesley rolled his chair directly into my path. His eyes were wide, and in the library’s flickering firelight I swear I saw fear in them.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. McClure. Such sounds are common. The house is in poor condition. Tonight’s rain and the wind have not helped the situation. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt…”

“But—”

“Please. It’s nothing to be alarmed about,” Peter declared. “Merely the walls settling…”

Pops is laying track, baby. He’s taking you for a rube.

“I know, Jack,” I silently replied. “I thought I heard a footstep before. What do I do?”

Don’t bunch your panties up, Jack cautioned. We’re probably talking a clumsy butler here. If gramps wants to pretend we’re alone, play along with his carny act, let him think we’re all conned and make like the shepherd—

“Make like you, Jack?”

Make like the proverbial shepherd, sweetheart, and get the flock out.

The grandfather clock struck nine. Peter Chesley’s shoulders slumped, and his head hung low on his waddled neck. “I’m terribly sorry, but I feel suddenly tired,” he moaned. “It is quite late…”

“Of course, Peter. We understand,” my aunt replied. “Penelope and I should get back on the road, too. I can send someone over in our van tomorrow and pick up these books.”

“No!” Peter cried, strangely reanimated. “I insist you take them now. Tonight. I have boxes right over there, in the corner. I’ll help you pack them up.”

“But, Mr. Chesley, what about the paperwork?” I reminded him. “Both parties should agree on the terms of a consignment contract, and—”

“Young woman, I’ve known your aunt for three decades. I can certainly trust you both to send the paperwork along at a later date. Whatever you decide is fine with me.”

Ten minutes later, I was carrying a box of books out to the car while Peter helped my aunt pack up the rest of the consignment. When I came back inside, I paused at the base of the staircase, listening.

The house was alive with sounds—wind whistling through corridors, the spatter of rain on the slate roof, the rustle of the trees outside, the constant thumping of water hitting the steel pan. But I could hear no more footsteps upstairs, no human sounds up there at all. I resisted the temptation to call “Hello?” and continued on to the library to carry out the next box of books.

After the trunk was loaded up, Peter Chesley escorted us from the library to the front door. I offered to push him in his wheelchair, but, in yet another gesture of chivalry, he insisted on using his cane and seeing us out under his own power.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, my dear,” he told me sweetly and shook my hand. His grip was weak and bony, but his smile was genuine.

“I’ll send you a consignment contract by Express Mail first thing in the morning, Mr. Chesley,” I assured him. “You should have it Tuesday, before noon.”

I thanked the elderly man and discreetly moved to the car to allow Sadie a few minutes alone to say goodbye to her old friend. At the end of the adieu, I noticed Peter forcing his arthritic form to bow so he could kiss my aunt’s hand.

When she finally settled into the passenger seat, I could see Sadie biting back tears. We drove away in silence. In my rearview mirror, the manor became a dark silhouette against a rolling purple sky. Roderick Road was still free of traffic, but now the rain had all but ceased. A steady wind gusting at around forty miles per hour was blow drying the landscape.

“Oh, my, that was hard,” Sadie said at last. “Seeing how much Peter aged during our years apart…and he’s been so isolated, holing himself up in that dreadful place.”

“He does live a strange existence,” I said, struggling to be diplomatic. “But he spoke of finding himself the patriarch of the family, and his responsibilities to that family. That means there are relatives out there, too. And he did mention it was the butler’s night off.”

“I think Peter made up that story about the butler,” Sadie replied. “What butler would let his employer live in such conditions? If he’s lucky, Peter has a home-care nurse who checks on him weekly.”

I heard Sadie sniff, saw her brush her glove across her damp cheek. “Well, now that I know he needs me…that he didn’t simply remarry some other woman and run off, I’m going to come visit him every weekend. I’m going to find out what’s really going on in that man’s life whether he likes it or not!”

I smiled, happy to hear the fight in my aunt’s voice. If anyone could lift the eccentric Peter Chesley out of his gloomy, mildewed hole of an existence, it was Sadie Thornton.

“I have tissue,” I offered, seeing her tears continue to flow. “In my purse in the back—Oh, no!”

“What?”

Now I knew why I hadn’t heard any wisecracks from Jack since we’d left the mansion. “I was so busy loading the trunk with boxes of books that I left my purse in Mr. Chesley’s library. My driver’s license and credit cards are in there, everything I need…” (Including my connection with Jack!)

“We have to go back,” Sadie declared. “Turn around.”

We’d been driving for ten minutes already, but I slowed the car to a crawl, looking for a place to make a U-turn. Before long, we were rolling through the iron gates of Prospero House once again.

“I do hope Peter hasn’t retired already,” Sadie fretted.

I glanced at my watch. “We’ve only been gone about twenty minutes. I’ll bet he’s still awake.”

“Let me go inside. I can be in and out in a moment.”

I gladly agreed. Chesley’s Mildewed Manor gave me the proverbial creeps, and I wasn’t keen on an encore appearance. As we rolled under the stone portico, however, I noticed that both massive front doors were wide open, the wind rippling the hanging curtains in the entranceway.

Sadie stiffened. “Something’s wrong.”

I stopped, cut the engine, and thrust the keys into Sadie’s gloved hand. “Wait here.”

“What? No, Pen, wait for me—”

I was much faster than my aunt, and out of the car and up the three stone steps before she’d gotten out of the passenger seat.

“Mr. Chesley?” I called. “Can you hear me? Are you okay?”

The howling wind was my only reply.

I peered through the door and saw the motionless form on the hard stone floor. A hinge squeaked as the wind moved the door. I glanced at the locks, the doorknobs. There was no sign of forced entry.

Behind me, I heard the car door slam, and seconds later my aunt was at my side. When she saw the man on the ground, she choked back a scream, took a step forward. I grabbed her arm, stopped her.

“Just in case we’re not alone, we go in together.”

I was more convinced than ever that I’d heard another person in the house earlier in the evening. Now I wondered whether that person was dangerous.

Sadie understood my concern. Face pale, she nodded.

Arm in arm, we stepped over the threshold. Cautiously, we scanned the room, searching for any sign of activity. The house seemed deserted, except for the man on the floor. We hurried to Peter’s side.

“Watch my back,” I whispered.

I bent over the man. He lay facedown at the bottom of the stairs, one bare foot resting on the bottom step, his velvet slipper missing. I felt his flesh for signs of life, but he was already cold. Even before I searched for a pulse, I suspected there was no life left in his frail, broken form.

When I put my hand on his throat, I discovered an unnatural lump—as if he’d broken his neck—then drew my hand back so quickly I lost my balance and fell on my behind. Sitting on the ground, I glanced around, spied the bamboo wheelchair parked in the corner of the room, far from the stairs.

There didn’t appear to be any marks on Chesley, nor signs of violence beyond the broken neck. I scanned the stairs, saw his missing slipper in the middle of the staircase near the second floor.

My aunt looked away. She was distraught, sobbing. There was nothing she could do for the living Peter Chesley, not anymore, but we couldn’t just leave his corpse here.

“We have to call 911,” I said.

Sadie, still in shock, offered me a blank stare. “I…I don’t know where Peter keeps his phone,” she said.

“Stay here. Don’t touch anything!”

My tone was brusque, almost harsh, but I needed to get through to Sadie, who was clearly shaken by her friend’s sudden demise.

I strode quickly back to the library. My purse was where I’d left it—dangling by its strap from the arm of the chair. I needed the cell phone inside to call the police. But as soon as my fingers touched the purse, a familiar voice filled my head.

Miss me, baby?

“Jack, something terrible has happened—”

As I filled Jack in, I reached for the old buffalo nickel he once owned. I rubbed the coin between my fingers, like some stupid, scared kid looking for a genie in a bottle.

Call the cops, honey, but look around first, Jack advised.

“Huh?”

Wake up, doll. You and auntie were the last to see this rube alive. If he’s been rubbed out, you’re both in the hot seat—prime suspects.

“Jack! My God. What do you want me to look for?” I cried—out loud, as it turned out.

Can the chatter, Tinkerbell. If a square john with a badge hears you yammering, he’ll get the idea you’re bats.

“Sorry. I just got excited.”

As I fumbled for my cell phone, a frantic cry interrupted the conversation in my head.

“Pen! Pen!” Sadie shouted. “Come here!”

Well, lamb chop, if it’s at all possible, sounds like things just got a little more exciting.