The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

“I’M SORRY, MRS. McClure, Mr. Chesley should be back any minute.”

Behind the high metal counter, the school secretary, “Ms. Jane” (what Jane Wiley had been instructing kids and parents to call her since I was ten years old) checked the antique watch on a chain around her neck. She glanced out the bank of windows behind her, patted the back of her upswept, silver-threaded brown hair, then sat down at her wooden desk and began to drum a pencil against the side of her computer.

She looked up at me again, a little nervously, then quickly shifted her attention to her computer screen. The lady seemed uncomfortable. Of course, it occurred to me Ms. Jane’s real discomfort might not have been her boss’s lateness but my notorious presence. After all, how many times a day did a LOCAL STOREOWNER IMPLICATED IN THEFT walk into the Quindicott Elementary School office?

Well, baby, Jack said, if the broad introduces you as “the accused,” that’ll be your first clue.

“Thank you,” I simultaneously said to Jack and the secretary.

There was a line of empty chairs near the glass office door and I sat down in one. Whether it was my night in jail or the giant poster on the wall listing DO’S AND DON’TS OF SCHOOL CONDUCT, I suddenly felt like I’d been sent in here for a reprimand.

Jack laughed. Feeling like a bad girl, are you?

“During the six years I went to this school, I never before saw the inside of this office.”

No? You mean nice-thinking, do-right, moo juice–drinking little Penelope never got into trouble? Now there’s a headline.

“Stow it, Jack.”

There you go with that nautical talk again, and I can’t stand the navy.

I massaged my throbbing temples. “I’m charged with a felony, waiting to see the principal, and a ghost who lives in my bookstore won’t stop harassing me. What happened to my life?”

Aw, baby, now don’t go getting into a funk, ’cause the last time I checked, I ain’t no shrink, and I got no clue where the spirit of Sigmund Freud is marking time.

“I don’t need Sigmund Freud. I need a good trial lawyer. Know any?”

Sure. Abraham Lincoln. Only, like old Siggy, I don’t know where he’s located, either.

After fifteen minutes of verbally sparring with my ghost, watching teachers come in and out of the office (glancing curiously my way), and listening to the office phone ring nonstop (“Quindicott Elementary, May I help you?”), I began to pace.

“Excuse me, Ms. Jane?” I finally called.

“Yes, Mrs. McClure.” She looked up from her computer, removed the reading glasses from the tip of her nose.

“You said Mr. Chesley was ‘due back’—is he even in the building?”

Once again, Ms. Jane glanced out the window, scanned the parking lot and the long driveway leading from the road. “I’m so sorry you have to wait. He did have some personal business to take care of, but it’s been over an hour now, and he really should be back soon.”

This dame’s a back door, you know, Jack whispered through my mind.

“A back door?” I echoed.

Sure, baby, she’s a way for you to get some background on this Chesley character you’re waiting for. Use your limbo to advantage. Not that I am, by the way. I can think of a lot more stimulating places to haunt than a backwoods bookstore in a town full of hicks.

Ignoring Jack’s latest jibe, I chewed my lip and seriously considered his back door suggestion. I wasn’t a gossip at heart. I liked my own privacy and I tried to give people theirs—“Live and let live and you’ll live a lot longer,” my mom used to say. But when it came to murder, Jack was right, all bets were off.

“So…uh, Ms. Jane, I’m curious,” I said, trying to sound casual, “what can you tell me about Claymore Chesley? I mean besides what you mentioned yesterday, about his credentials.”

“Well, since you asked…” She rose from her desk and moved across the room, placing her elbows on the high counter that separated the waiting area from the rest of the office. “He’s single, never been married, and no children, as far as I know,” she said, her voice low. “I’ve overheard him talking on the phone, and it sounds to me like he came back East to help out his parents, but he’s very disappointed he couldn’t find any college-level openings right away.”

“Why does he have to help out his parents?”

“His father’s been ill. He’s in a nursing facility now, and his mother’s getting on in years. So he moved back home, took a supervisory position last spring in the school district office, ‘just to pay the bills,’ I overhead him say. With his father’s illness, they’ve likely mounted up.”

“So he’s not going to be permanently on staff here, then?”

“Oh, no! Heaven’s no. This is still Mrs. McConnell’s school. Mr. Chesley was sent here by the school district to cover for her temporarily. I spoke to Eleanor just this morning to keep her up to date on everything. She has every intention of returning after her baby’s delivered.”

Most everything else Ms. Jane knew about Clay Chesley she said she’d picked up from a memo the school district had issued to the elementary school staff, announcing his temporary appointment.

“That’s really all I know,” she said with a shrug. “Not much, since we’ve only just started working together.”

Not much? Cripes, this dame would make a hell of a professional snoop. I should hire her as my secretary.

“You can’t. You’re dead.”

Don’t get touchy, honey. Jealousy’ll give a girl wrinkles.

As Ms. Jane went back to her computer, I continued to look out the office’s back windows. Within a few minutes, a large black SUV pulled into a reserved parking slot near the building, and I found myself holding my breath, waiting for the driver to emerge.

The door opened and a tall, well-built man stepped out. He wore a tweed blazer, white shirt, brown corduroys, and a ochre tie. I couldn’t make out his facial features very well, but he had a thick head of golden hair.

Was this the principal? The man threw an overcoat over his arm and strode toward the school entrance. Less than a minute later, I had my answer. Claymore Chesley arrived in a whirlwind, sweeping through the office door without even noticing me in the anteroom.

“Jane,” the man called, snapping his fingers. “I’m back. Anything urgent?”

“Your noon appointment is here,” Jane replied, rising quickly to meet the man. She gestured in my direction.

Principal Chesley half turned, finally noticing me.

“Mrs. McClure,” he said, with a short nod. “I didn’t see you.”

That’s when I realized two things—the man did vaguely resemble Peter Chesley and I had actually seen him before. He’d been in Buy the Book a few times. I couldn’t recall waiting on him, but I was certain he’d browsed our stacks.

“Give me one more minute,” he said.

Before I could respond, he spun around again, showing me his back as he spoke with the school secretary—some business about a substitute teacher’s paycheck. Then he asked what afternoon appointments followed mine. She ran down the list. Finally, he took a file from Ms. Jane’s hands and half turned toward me again.

“All right, Mrs. McClure, come in,” he said brusquely, waving for me to follow as he swiftly strode through his open office door.

He tossed his overcoat over a cluttered corner table and sat down behind his large desk. Immediately he began tapping on his computer keyboard; his fingers, I noticed, were sans ring—wedding or any other type. Ms. Jane was right. He wasn’t married.

The monitor sat at an angle and I could partially see the screen. He was scanning his e-mails, ignoring me.

The man hadn’t apologized for being late. Nor had he invited me to sit, but there were two chairs across from his desk, obviously meant for visitors. Both had stacks of files, books, and reports on them.

“Excuse me? May I move these?” I asked.

“Sure, just drop them anywhere,” he said waving his hand, not bothering to look up from his screen.

This Alvin’s got the manners of a goat.

“Can’t argue with you there, Jack.”

I picked up the heavy stack of books and reports and looked for a place to put them.

How about this bozo’s head?

“Easy, Jack. He looks like a very busy man. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt.”

On the other hand, as I nearly wrenched my back bending to set the pile carefully on the floor, I couldn’t help remembering how chivalrous Peter Chesley had been when Sadie and I had visited him.

The old man had been struggling to even walk when he’d led us to the seats next to his library’s fireplace, yet he’d remained standing by his wheelchair, refusing to sit until Sadie and I had first taken our seats. And, even though it must have been a painful effort, he’d insisted on helping us pack up the books we took with us.

I spoke up as I sat down. “Mr. Chesley, are you, by any chance, related to Peter Chesley, the retired Brown University professor?”

“He’s my uncle,” Chesley responded tonelessly. “Or rather, he was.”

It’s a cinch, Jack said. Manners skip a generation.

“You don’t seem very upset about it,” I bluntly told the principal.

That got his attention. He shifted away from the screen at last and focused hard on me. His eyes were blue—big, beautiful, electric blue. Obviously, he shared that line of DNA with his uncle. But not the expression, which was frosty as it peered at me, miles away from friendly. His eyes, however, weren’t what disturbed me the most; it was the body part located between them—

“Your nose is swollen,” I blurted out.

Claymore frowned. His hand automatically touching the puffy, discolored skin. “Accident. Up on the highway. It was hardly more than a fender bender but the airbag deployed. That’s why I’m late.”

I shifted uneasily, trying not to give away how disturbed I was by this claim. Just yesterday I had clobbered a well built masked man—

Right in his beezer! Jack finished for me.

“His what?”

His nose, his nose!

“Okay! Okay!” I silently told Jack. “But what if claymore here is telling the truth? I can’t swear the injury is fresh. What if he really was in a car accident?”

Look, baby, if this joker really was in an accident, then his boiler out there should have some sort of dent in it. A few scratches, at least. If it doesn’t, you know he’s playing you for a rube.

“Should I make an excuse, get up now and check?”

Don’t move your keister. Check the parking lot when you leave. Right now, you’ve got to conduct your interview—only don’t let the yegg know you’re interrogating him. Facts, baby, get me some facts.

I stalled to get my thoughts in order, pretending to cough and clear my throat. Finally, striving to keep my tone conversational, I said, “I knew your uncle. Not very well or anything, but that’s why I asked. And I’m very sorry about your loss.”

“Thanks, but I hadn’t seen the man in over twenty years.”

“Really? Why is that?”

Claymore shifted in his seat; the old leather chair creaked. “Uncle Peter was part of the Newport Chesleys. My side of the family lives in Millstone. Years ago, the two sides had a falling-out. You know how it is with family feuds?”

I nodded, as if commiserating, but my mind was racing. Millstone was the next town over. Like Quindicott, it was a far cry from Newport. In fact, as property values and incomes went, Millstone was even less affluent than Quindicott.

Ms. Jane had already said Claymore needed money, that he’d come back East to help his aging parents. If that were true, then Claymore’s side of the family must not have benefitted from any of the inheritance Peter’s side had received. But just how cut off were they?

“So you’ve never been to the family’s old estate near the ocean, Prospero House?” I asked.

“Not since I was very young. I remember it being fairly creepy.”

“Yes, well…I was just there—on the night your uncle died.” I eyeballed Claymore, trying to gauge his reaction, but the man just kept staring at me, stone-faced. “It looked like the mansion was falling down around his ears,” I added pointedly.

“Is that so? Well…like I said, Mrs. McClure, all I know about my uncle’s death is what I read in the papers.”

“But the papers didn’t say much of anything.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“Your uncle died falling down a flight of stairs. But he had severe arthritis and he told me and my aunt that he no longer climbed the stairs. He’d even moved his bedroom to the first floor.”

“That’s odd, but then…” He shrugged. “My uncle was sort of odd, as I recall.”

“So you haven’t been back long?” I asked.

“What do you mean? Back from lunch?”

“No, back here in Rhode Island. When I stopped by yesterday, Ms. Jane told me about your credentials. Very impressive. You went to St. Francis College, but then you moved away, went to California to get your doctorate and you stayed out west, right? You became a professor at a teacher’s college. So when exactly did you move back East? And what exactly have you been up to?”

Whoa, baby, slow down! You’re moving too fast!

The second Jack said it, I knew I’d messed up.

Claymore Chesley stiffened, then adjusted his tie. “What is this? A job interview?” He laughed to undercut his discomfort, then he glanced at his watch. “Didn’t you come here to discuss your son?”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. I was just curious. You’re one of Buy the Book’s customers—I mean, I’ve seen you in our store—and I like to know about my customers. It helps me better serve them.”

“I moved back to Millstone last February, Mrs. McClure,” he said curtly. “And I browse lots of bookstores, but I buy them on the Internet. Now let’s discuss your son….” He scanned the file Ms. Jane had handed to him and leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “Spencer, right? What’s the problem?”

“Jack,” I silently wailed, “what do I do?”

Talk about your son. Set the man at ease. Make him think that you’re not grilling him…then go back to grilling him!

I dug into my handbag and laid out the reason I’d come, placing Spencer’s ripped Reader’s Notebook and the pieces of his first-place award certificate on the principal’s desk. I explained that there’d been bullying on the bus, that a child named Boyce Lyell had been responsible and the eyewitness was Susan Keenan, the mother of one of Spencer’s friends.

Claymore Chesley picked up the shredded notebook and shook his head. “This is unacceptable,” he said. “We’ll have to punish Boyce, of course, although…I can see how this happened.”

I nodded. “Yes, I agree. No supervision on the buses is obviously a problem.”

“What?…No, Mrs. McClure, that’s not the problem. We already have supervision on the buses. They’re called bus drivers.”

I bristled at the man’s tone, which had gone from terse to downright insufferable.

“A bus driver isn’t a monitor,” I replied, trying to keep my own tone reasonable and courteous. “A driver’s job is to drive the bus safely, pay attention to the road, not watch the kids. That’s exactly what Spencer’s driver told Susan Keenan when she berated him for not stopping the bullying.”

“Wait, wait! Back up. Are you telling me a parent berated one of our drivers? We can’t have that sort of thing going on. That’s unacceptable treatment of an employee. What did you say her name was? Susan…” He picked up a pen. “Can you spell her last name?”

I stared speechless for a moment. “Principal Chesley, I’m talking about a bullying incident here. I’m talking about how to fix the situation of no supervision on the buses.”

“There’s nothing wrong with our system, Mrs. McClure. This incident on the bus with your boy is the only one that’s come up this school year.”

“The school year just started yesterday!”

“Nevertheless, you see my point?”

“What point?!”

“The bus drivers are on the bus. The bus drivers are also adults. Therefore, there are adults on the buses already. You see? Follow the simple syllogism and there are no monitors needed.”

We went around and around like that for five more minutes. Finally, the principal stood up. “I understand your concerns, Mrs. McClure, and I’ll take it under advisement—”

“No you won’t,” I snapped, rising to my feet as well. “You’re just patronizing me. But I’m taking this up with the school board.”

“You won’t get anywhere. The school budget’s on a shoestring as it is. We can’t afford to pay teachers to ride the buses.”

“Well, the children’s safety comes first. Or at least it should. If you won’t address the problem through administration, I’m sure the parents can organize volunteers to ride the buses each day and provide supervision. I’ll bring it up at the next PTA meeting.”

“That’s very resourceful of you, but let’s be frank. Your son was bullied for a reason.”

“Excuse me? You don’t even know my son.”

“I know you own a bookstore.”

“So?”

“So…” Claymore Chesley shrugged. “It’s understandable that a bunch of angry kids were upset he won the summer reading contest. I know at least one of the evaluating teachers broached the subject of disqualifying him for having an unfair advantage.”

“Unfair advantage? Let me tell you something. My boy read every single book in that notebook. And every single book he read was checked out of the public library, which every child in this school has access to.”

Claymore made a scoffing face. “Oh, come on. You’re telling me the kid didn’t use your bookstore?”

“Yes, that’s what I’m telling you. You think I’d allow him to read books then put them back on the shelf to be sold as new? You’ve got a pretty low view of people, don’t you, Mr. Chesley?”

“People cheat all the time, Mrs. McClure.” Claymore glanced at his watch. “Jane!” he called loudly and rudely through the half-open door.

“Yes, Principal Chesley,” said the secretary running to see why he’d bellowed.

“Is my next appointment here?”

“Yes, sir. Mrs. Sereno wanted to discuss the decorations for the Halloween party.”

“Fine. Send her in.”

I couldn’t believe the man’s level of rudeness. I waited for him to at least extend his hand and bid me goodbye, but he simply stood there, glaring.

It took a great force of will for me to refrain from extending my own hand and offering a polite and meek, even apologetic farewell. But I’d already done that more times in my life to count—reacted to overt hostility, even blatant rudeness, with a sort of cowed politeness, pretending the insult never happened instead of facing it head-on.

I was always making excuses for people like Claymore Chesley, telling myself that they were just stressed and emotional because they had problems in their lives. But they weren’t the only ones with problems! I’d had problems all my life and I never stopped striving to display manners, to treat people with respect.

That’s when I realized, I’d been so desperate in the past to reestablish an atmosphere of civility (with my in-laws, my old bosses in publishing, even my own moody, verbally abusive late husband), that I’d let nasty people get a way with…with…

Bullying, baby.

Oh my God, I thought. All those years…. I was simply letting myself get bullied instead of standing up and saying, “Hey! Wait a second. You shouldn’t treat people like that! And you’re not going to treat me like that!”

Baby, why do you think I’ve been saying, “Take it to the mat?”

I cleared my throat, but this time it wasn’t to stall. It was to make sure my voice was loud and clear. “I’m not through here, Mr. Chesley,” I said, not caring that Jane Wiley and Mrs. Sereno were standing only a few feet away.

“Excuse me?”

“You said people cheat all the time. Well, some people do. And some people don’t. Some people are honest all the time, and upstanding and trustworthy, too. Or at least they try to be. And some of us, including your uncle Peter, God rest his soul, actually have manners.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you implying I don’t?”

“You didn’t have the decency to apologize for being late. You never offered me a seat or your hand to shake. And you had the nerve to imply that my son, the victim of a crime, had it coming.”

“You’re overreacting—”

“I’m leaving the evidence of that little boy’s destructive bullying on your desk. And by the way, it was only one boy. One bully. Not ‘a bunch of angry kids.’ So I expect that Boyce Lyell will be punished for his actions.”

Claymore nervously glanced at the school secretary and the art teacher watching the scene with wide eyes. The man fidgeted, crossing and uncrossing his arms, clearly embarrassed he’d miscalculated. He’d called his next appointment in to embarrass me into leaving. But I wasn’t leaving until I’d said my peace, audience or not.

“I also expect a letter of reprimand to go to his parents,” I continued, “and I’m expecting to be copied on it, so I know I don’t have to take this matter up the ladder to the school district, over your head, got it? Is that clear enough for you?”

“That won’t be necessary,” he said, my threat finally prying a civil tone out of his mouth. “I’ll make sure the boy is punished and his parents notified. You’ll be copied, as you asked. Anything else?”

I blinked, staring in silence for a few seconds.

“Mrs. McClure,” he prompted. “Anything else?”

Yeah, pal, Jack piped up in my head. Just one more question: Did you happen to murder your old uncle Pete? Give Rene Montour the big chill? And break into my bookstore?

I squeezed my eyes shut. “I blew it, didn’t I?” I silently asked Jack. “There’s no way I’m getting anything more out of this guy about his uncle or the rest of his family.”

Don’t sweat it. sweetheart. You took care of things for your boy. You did good. Now scram. Blow this joint.

“There’s nothing else,” I finally declared. “And I’m sure you can understand why I won’t be saying, it was a pleasure.”

Swallowing my nerves, I reached for as much dignity as I could muster, picked up my handbag, secured the strap over my shoulder, and wheeled to face the door.

Ms. Jane and Mrs. Sereno were still standing right there in the doorway. I could tell from their expressions—a striking combination of shock and awe—that I was the last person they’d expected to read Claymore Chesley the riot act.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” I said, polite as can be.

From now on, I decided, civility was going to be a gift. Something I’d gladly bestow on civil people. No more freebies for schmucks, I thought, as I pushed through the glass door and stepped into the school hall.

I heard Jack Shepard laughing and then a little boy’s voice.

“Hi, Mrs. McClure.”

I looked down to see Danny Keenan wiping water away from his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He was standing next to a drinking fountain.

“Were you just in the principal’s office?”

“Yes, I was.”

“I heard yelling. Were you yelling at the principal?”

“Yes, Danny. I was.”

His freckled face broke into a grin. “I can go tell Spencer you’re here, if you want. He’s in the cafeteria.”

“No, Danny. That’s all right. But thank you for being so thoughtful.”

“No problem, Mrs. McClure.” He waved as he headed back down the hall. “Have a nice day.”

Well, what do you know, I thought, as I struck out for the parking lot to inspect Clay Chesley’s vehicle.

What?

That ten-year-old had better manners than his principal.

Yeah, honey. That’s a fact.