The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

I WAS TAKEN directly to the Quindicott Police headquarters, a surprisingly small redbrick building on the outskirts of town.

A female officer searched me, then my personal belongings were placed in a manila envelope, including my wallet, watch, bracelet, earrings, and loose change. After that I was led into another room where I was posed against a white screen and handed a plaque with my name and date on it. A young male officer snapped my photograph with a handheld camera. Then my fingerprints were taken.

While I was wiping the ink from my hands, I heard angry voices from the next room. I recognized Chief Ciders’s bellow. The other speaker was Detective Marsh, who spoke with calm authority.

I couldn’t make out much, but it sounded to me like they were fighting about my arrest. Apparently Ciders wasn’t happy.

A policewoman took my arm. I recognized her as a customer in my store. I’d seen her browsing with her two preteen daughters in tow. Now my face reddened with shame and I could hardly face her.

The room they placed me in was deemed a “holding cell”—a cubicle with sickly green paint on the walls, a concrete floor, fluorescent lights, and a cot, sink, and toilet. There were no bars on the doors or windows. In fact, there were no windows, except for the wire-laced pane set in the steel door so the officers could keep an eye on their prisoner. The room must have been soundproofed, because the last thing I heard was the click of the lock being thrown.

I felt like crying, but the tears wouldn’t come. They’d taken everything from my pockets, including Jack’s buffalo nickel. I closed my eyes, willed him to be there for me, but there was nothing. I couldn’t feel him or hear him. I felt lost and completely alone.

There was no chair, so I laid down on the bunk, expecting to toss and turn all night. But I was coming down hard off an adrenaline shock, and I fell into a deep deathlike sleep. I didn’t wake up until another policewoman arrived in the morning.

“Time to see the magistrate, Mrs. McClure,” the woman told me.

“I need to make a phone call,” I replied, wiping the sleep from my eyes. “I want to check on my son.”

The woman went away, returned with a cell phone. I called my aunt and told her to stay put, to take care of Spencer and send him off to school. I also told her to call Brainert if I wasn’t back home by noon. Sadie put up a brave front, but I knew she was upset and frightened.

I was taken to Quindicott’s historic, pre–Civil War era courthouse, where I waited for two hours. Finally the magistrate arrived, heard the charges, and set a trial date in early January. Since I had “ties to the community” I was not deemed “a flight risk,” so I was released on my own recognizance.

Officer Franzetti drove me home after the hearing. Sensitive to my embarrassment, Eddie left the squad car with his partner and chauffeured me in his own SUV. It was nearly eleven o’clock in the morning when I got back to Buy the Book. A relieved Sadie rushed to hug me when she heard the door chime.

“Brainert called three times, frantic with worry. Seymour was here, too—”

“How is Seymour?” I asked. “It looked like Bull McCoy gave him a pretty bad time.”

“He’s fine,” Sadie replied. “Swears he’s going to make sure Bull McCoy gets the wrong mail for at least six months.”

“And Spencer?”

“I just told him something came up and you had to go out. He got off to school just fine. Frankly, I think he was relieved you wouldn’t be going with him today. I think he was hoping you’d miss your meeting with the new principal.”

I hadn’t forgotten the meeting—with yet another Chesley. More complications at a time when things were complicated enough for me already!

“Now, please, Penelope, I’ve been fretting all night. What in the world is going on? Why were you arrested? Seymour and Brainert told me the state police charged you with theft?”

“Grand larceny—a felony.”

“For stealing what?” Sadie asked.

“Jacques Montour has charged me with stealing the Poe book that Rene bought for him,” I explained. “Apparently, his representative, a man named Gordon Hessler, showed up at Fiona’s last night to collect Rene’s personal belongings. After that, he went to the Quindicott Police Station to claim the effects from the accident scene.

“When Ciders turned over the Chandler first editions but no Phelps Poe, Hessler was irate. He called the state police and said that an eight-thousand-dollar book was missing and presumed stolen.

“Detective Marsh called back Chief Ciders, who’d been in charge of the accident scene. Ciders said the scene was secure. The only person who was even close to the car, besides the police and emergency workers, was me. And, of course, I had told Ciders I was looking for the exact book that was stolen. In retrospect, I guess I was pretty rude and loud about it, too.”

“I see,” said Sadie. “So you became the fall guy, so to speak.”

“Yes, I think there was pressure on the state police to arrest me. And Officer Marsh is not exactly a fan of mine. He’s marked me as a bad penny ever since the first author to appear in our store ended up as a corpse.”

“But there’s no evidence against you,” Sadie cried, throwing up her hands.

“That’s what Chief Ciders told Marsh. I heard them arguing while I was being booked. Eddie said Ciders was really steamed about my being arrested, but he had no choice. He actually stuck his neck out to keep me here in town instead of being booked in Providence like Marsh wanted.”

Sadie snorted. “Chief Ciders doesn’t stick his neck out for anyone.”

“Apparently Ciders feels guilty for implicating me. Small comfort if I go to prison.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” Sadie passed me a mug of hot coffee from the thermos we kept behind the counter.

I took my first sip, realizing only then that I’d had no food or drink since the Quibbler’s meeting. “So what do I tell Spencer?” I asked. “He’s going to hear about this sooner or later.”

“Then it’s best he hear it from you. When he gets home from school we’ll both sit him down and have a talk.”

“How do I tell my son I’m innocent?”

“Don’t worry, Pen. Spencer’s watched enough shows on the Intrigue Channel to know people get blamed all the time for crimes they didn’t commit.”

I sighed, took another hit of caffeine. “How are you feeling?” I asked my aunt. “The meeting last night seemed to upset you.”

Sadie shook her head. “It wasn’t the meeting. It was all those things Parker said about Poe. I just got to thinking about Peter, how bad off he was at the end, how a stupid misunderstanding set us apart all those years…”

“What misunderstanding? I don’t follow.”

“Well, I thought I had put this behind me, but…remember the night Peter died, as we were leaving his mansion? You left us alone to say goodnight…”

“I remember.”

“Peter actually asked me how ‘my husband’ was. The question took me by surprise. But Peter told me he’d read about my marriage in the Providence Journal—”

“Oh, yes! I remember that. You wrote me a letter about it while I was living in New York. The announcement said, ‘Sadie Thornton married’…Who was it?”

“Mr. Aletti, of the Quindicott Savings and Loan,” Sadie said. “The paper got the names wrong, printing my name instead of Sadie Thorners. I got ribbed about it for weeks—your friend Seymour was the worst. He’d just started his route that year. Kept saying he had a truck load of wedding gifts for the wrong bride.”

“So Peter Chesley read that announcement in the paper, and he thought—”

“He thought I was married.” Sadie shook her head. “That’s why he never contacted me again. Eventually I myself assumed that he was the one who’d found someone. I’d convinced myself he’d gotten remarried and simply decided to break all ties with me.”

Sadie brushed her cheek of a stray tear. “But the hardest part for me is…when I think back, to that time when we were so close, when were a couple, I can’t even recall what it was that broke us apart. Just squabbles and hurt feelings and misunderstandings…now it all seems so petty…so stupid. I can’t think why we didn’t try harder to work it out.”

I nodded, not knowing what to say.

“You can always tell yourself that there’s a chance, but when someone dies, when he leaves the earth…well, when that happens, it’s over. A door shuts forever. What am I saying? After what you went through in your life, Penelope, I don’t have to tell you that, do I, dear?”

I chewed my lip, knowing she was talking about Calvin, but wishing I could tell her about Jack.

“Well, it’s all water under the bridge now,” she said. “We have to focus on the here and now.”

And that’s what we did.

The store had only a few customers, so I pulled out a stack of trade magazines I’d let pile up and began to read through the book reviews, making notes in the margins. Sadie went upstairs to fix me a sandwich.

Good morning, baby.

“Hi, Jack…. I missed you.”

I’ll bet…. How was your night in stir?

“Unpleasant. And humiliating. And you were right.”

Yeah?

“I shouldn’t have gone outside. They didn’t have a warrant to enter the premises. By exiting the store, I set myself up for an arrest.”

That scam was old when I was in knee pants.

“Hard to imagine you in knee pants, Jack.”

These days, it’s hard for me to remember the day when I had knees, but at least nobody’s trying to bust them anymore. Jack paused. So…you ready to go to the mat yet?

“Huh?”

Are you ready to fight back?

“Against who? Against what?” I cried. Aloud, apparently.

“What did you say, dear?” Sadie asked. She’d returned with a plate in one hand and a full glass of milk in the other. She wore a puzzled expression.

“Sorry…nothing,” I said with a sigh. “I was just thinking out loud.”

“Have something to eat. You’ll feel better,” my aunt commanded.

When I sat down behind the counter, I saw a white envelope tucked next to the register. It had Brainert’s name on it, written in my aunt’s flowing hand.

“What’s this?” I asked between bites of my Virginia ham and Swiss cheese sandwich.

Sadie picked up the envelope and opened the flap. “Brainert and Seymour helped me pack up the chairs after the meeting last night,” she said. “A little while ago, when I was sweeping out the storage room, I found this…”

She dropped a heavy object into my palm—a quarter-inch black square of onyx with a gold crest set in the middle. I immediately recognized the coat-of-arms of St. Francis College, where Brainert was a professor.

“It must have fallen out of Brainert’s ring,” Sadie said. “You can give it to him when you visit him later.”

“Why am I visiting Brainert later?”

“He wants you to come by, after he’s had a chance to do more research on the Poe Code.”

I’d had my fill of Phelps, Poe, and the ridiculous code, but I kept silent, took a gulp of milk instead. I stared out the window a moment, at the people on the sidewalk, wondering how many of them I knew.

“I’m almost afraid to go out,” I said. “I feel like the police are watching me all the time. I’m afraid I’m going to get arrested again. Most of all, I’m worried about my reputation. Word is bound to get out.”

Sadie shook her head. “Don’t be silly, Pen. Hardly anyone knows what happened. It will be the Quibblers’ little secret.”

The chimes rang when a young man stepped through the door

“Here’s your Bulletins, ma’am,” he said, dropping a bundle of newspapers next to the door. He was delivering our store’s consignment of the Quindicott Bulletin, the town’s weekly pennysaver and local newspaper rolled into one.

“Thank you,” I called.

The youth’s friendly smile vanished when he saw me. He was out the door and down the street in a flash. Meanwhile Sadie pulled a copy from the stack, glanced at the front page, and exploded.

“Damn that Elmer Crabtree!”

“What’s wrong?” I cried. But I knew. I knew when the delivery boy gave me that look.

The main headline dealt with the beginning of the school year, including a photo of the kids arriving on the first day. The second story involved me, under the headline LOCAL STOREOWNER IMPLICATED IN THEFT.

The story was all of three paragraphs, obviously inserted just before the paper went to press this morning. Thankfully there was no mug shot. The article was factually incorrect, describing Rene Montour as a “Frenchman” who died in a “collision.” Editor Crabtree even managed to get our store’s name wrong, calling it “Buy Books Here.” Of course, he did manage to spell my name right, and give my age (not that I’m vain, but I wouldn’t want my weight or bank account information in the newspaper, either).

“I’d better have that talk with Spencer real soon,” I said.

Sadie folded the paper and tossed it into the wastecan. “Speaking of Spencer. Don’t you have a meeting with the new principal this afternoon?”

“I should cancel. I can’t leave you alone in the store—”

“Nonsense. Business is slow, Pen. And Mina is coming in an hour.”

“Mina? I thought Garfield was working today.”

Sadie shrugged. “He called me just after I opened the store. Said he switched days with Mina. Said it was all worked out and she would be in on time.”

I had yet to have that talk with Garfield about the missing key. Now I began to wonder if Garfield was avoiding me, or if he had something to hide.

That kid’s a gimp, for sure, said Jack. I’d peg him for a grifter, but one on a leash. If someone in the Platt family is in deep, I’d pin it on Garfield’s brother, the fish who’s fresh out of the joint.

“Just because someone went to prison doesn’t mean they’re a criminal. I was in jail last night, but I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Babe, stop living in Dimsville. Jail isn’t the same as prison. And there are two things to remember in life: people don’t change, and most of them are no damned good.

“The way I’m feeling, I won’t even argue with you.”

But you’re still not ready to go to the mat.

“I’m going to see the principal now,” I said out loud.

“That’s good, Pen,” my aunt replied. “And don’t forget to stop by Brainert’s afterwards. I can’t wait to hear what he’s discovered.”

A visit to the Casa de Egghead? Why do you want to go there, lamb chop? You just got out of jail!