The Ghost and Mrs. McClure Page 20

  “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 to
ld 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.”

  EPILOGUE

  Usually female detectives are not favorites with men readers.

  —“The Editor,” Crime Busters magazine, December 1938

  FOUR WEEKS LATER, October came to New England.

  I don’t fully understand how the cool kiss of fall sets fire to summer’s green, but every year, without fail, the foliage around Quindicott burns in hues of gold, scarlet, and amber, just as it does all over our state. And, every year, thousands of tourists drive north from the cities to gaze at this momentous event—primarily because it transforms Rhode Island’s woods just a little bit earlier than New York’s, New Jersey’s, and Pennsylvania’s.

  After everything I’d gone through with Calvin, Shelby, and Jack, I found that, like the leaves, I had changed, too. I was no longer green. On that brisk fall evening when I saw Kenneth and Deirdre Franken again, I was totally prepared to handle the store’s scheduled event. I’d helped seat the packed crowd in the Buy the Book community events space. And I’d appointed Seymour Tarnish to guard the front door, where he could express his sincere regrets as he turned away latecomers.

  “The sign says occupancy by more than two hundred and fifty people is against the law!” I heard Seymour shouting. “You got a problem with that, take it up with the fire chief!”

  Deirdre Franken, hearing about the latecomers, hurried to the front door, where she passed the word to Seymour.

  “Good news, folks!” Seymour yelled to the throng still gathering outside. “Mr. Franken has agreed to do a second signing, at nine-thirty. Come back in two hours, and we’ll let you in on a first-come, first-served basis.”

  Kenneth Franken was just finishing up the national tour to promote Shield of Justice. Salient House had stood behind him, booking him on major television shows to talk about the infamous Bookstore Murder and the bombshell that he was the real ghostwriter behind the last three critically praised Jack Shield books.

  Now Hollywood was not only bidding for the rights to a Jack Shield feature film, they also wanted rights to the separate story of Brennan’s Bookstore Murder. It looked as though Seymour’s “crackpot” idea to promote the store and the town might actually come true.

  Of course, that meant more business for all the Cranberry Street Quibblers, too. I sighed. More business meant more profit, but our parking problems still weren’t resolved. And judging from the present throng, the night was going to be another late one—and my feet hurt already.

  Yeah, baby, said Jack. But I like your gams in those pumps.

  I fought off a flush as I saw Spencer giving Sadie a big hug near the front door. He looked the copper-headed cutie in his dark suit—how could a kid be a heartbreaker in only third grade? By looking like my brother Pete, I thought. That’s how.

  Outside, I heard the short burst of a car horn, and I noticed the McClures’ driver waving as he pulled the Mercedes away from the curb. Ashley had insisted that Spencer travel to Newport this evening to dine with his grandmother. Now that the summer season had ended, the McClure clan had moved back into their New York City residences. Theater season was on for the ladies who lunch, and their children had returned to their private schools, but this weekend they’d come back up with the tourists to see the fall foliage.

  “Mom!” cried Spencer, rushing up to me for a hug. I knelt down and pulled him in. When he broke free, he said, “Aunt Ashley wanted me to call you and tell you that I wanted to stay the night, but I didn’t.”

  “Oh, really? Why not?”

  “I told her I had to get home for your big night, and if her driver didn’t take me, I was calling you to send me a cab. Boy, that really steamed her up!”

  I licked my thumb and smoothed away a smudge of something, probably a French sauce, from Spence’s cheek. “But did you have fun?” I asked.

  Spencer shrugged. “For a while . . . then Aunt Ashley started bugging me about living in New York City with her again, going back to my old school.”

  So my sister-in-law was still at it, I thought. Well, I shouldn’t have been surprised. When “the princessa” and her mother wanted something, they were used to getting it.

  “And what did you tell Aunt Ashley?”

  “I told her nix to that! There’s no way I’m going back to New York. I like my new teacher. And I’m having too much fun selling books.”

  Nix to that? I thought.

  “I mean, come on,” said Spence, “how would I finish reading all the rest of the books in this store if I wasn’t living here? And besides . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re here. And I’d never leave you, Mom.”

  I smiled. Round One to the defending champ of motherhood. But I knew the boxing wasn’t over. As Spencer got older, Ashley would find new, more intriguing temptations to lure my son out of my sphere.

  Well, I was ready for her now. Since I’d met Jack, I was learning how to fight in whole new ways.

  “Pen,” Sadie called, “the Shield of Justice display is empty again.”

  “Fear not, Mother! Spenser for Hire is here!” Then my boy was off, racing toward the stockroom with all the vigor of summer green.

  I rose, dusted off my nude stockings and black skirt, and wound my way through the crowd to get to the main store counter. I touched the shoulder of our new part-time employee—a freshman from St. Francis College, the school where Brainert taught.

  “How’s it going, Mina?” I asked.

  “Great, Mrs. McClure!” She smiled through braces as she bagged a customer’s purchase. “This is so cool! I didn’t know working in a bookstore could be so . . . exciting.”

  Freckles doesn’t glam the half of it, said Jack.

  I ran my hands through my copper curls. I’d used an iron to add some bounce, put contacts in for the night, and makeup, too—Linda even helped me find a shade of peach lip gloss to match my new silk blouse. Still, I was truly surprised to see men turn their heads as I walked by.

  Don’t be, sweetheart. Didn’t I say you were whistle bait?

  I walked back to the events room, where the crowd—sans Jack Shield costumes, thank you very much!—had become restless. My old friend Brainert waved me to the reserved empty chair next to him in the front row.

  I wasn’t sitting a minute when the room exploded with applause as they greeted Kenneth Franken, who entered with Deirdre by his side. The author and his wife walked together to the podium, then Deirdre took the reserved seat next to me in the front row. Fiona Finch, Bud Napp, and the Logans were seated right behind us.

  George Young, the store’s longtime Salient House sales representative, back from his cruise, introduced Kenneth Franken as the ghostwriter for the last three Jack Shield novels—and the author of record on Shield of Fate, a new Jack Shield novel due to hit stores next fall.

  During a second round of cheers, Deirdre took my hand and squeezed. She and Kenneth hadn’t stopped expressing their undying gratitude to me since Shelby Cabot was arrested. . . .

  THE DAY AFTER I’d provoked Shelby into a confession, the Frankens had insisted on taking me out to Newport for an extravagant dinner to celebrate Deirdre’s release. We’d become fast friends ever since.

  According to the Frankens, Shelby had been a college student of Kenneth’s back in the days when he’d been a teacher. She’d always had a terrible crush on him, even made aggressive passes during that period. But Kenneth had rebuffed her.

  Years later, they met again, through Shelby’s work for Salient House and Kenneth’s work for Timothy Brennan. In Kenneth’s words, he felt demoralized by his father-in-law’s treatment, so he’d been stupidly vulnerable to Shelby’s advances. He slept with Shelby for about four weeks and then, as he put it at our dinner that night, “I came to my senses.”

  He said he realized that he loved his wife “deeply and utterly.” As he put it, “I realized I was throwing away something lasting
for something ephemeral.”

  But Shelby didn’t see it that way.

  She began to plead with him, stalk him, and even threaten him. Kenneth thought ignoring her was the best way to handle it. And by the time the six-week promotional tour came up for Shield of Justice, Kenneth honestly thought Shelby was over him. Instead, Shelby had hatched a plan she thought would get her everything she wanted—Kenneth, riches, prestige, professional acclaim.

  “Things didn’t exactly work out the way she planned,” I noted that night at our Newport dinner.

  “No,” said Deirdre. “Now she’s facing the murder charge I was facing.”

  “If there’s anything I can ever do for you, Mrs. McClure,” said Kenneth, “you let me know.”

  “Let us know,” said Deirdre.

  AS THE APPLAUSE died, Deirdre released my hand, and I gave her a nod and a smile. She nodded back at me, then gazed up at her husband, who returned her gaze with what looked to me like abiding love.

  I’d never seen anyone look at me that way, not even my late husband. And I couldn’t help wondering about Shelby Cabot—the pain she must have felt in seeing the object of her adoration giving his love to someone else. It must have been like looking into the abyss, I thought.

  Don’t get existential on me, sweet cheeks. The abyss ain’t so bad.

  “Why, Jack,” I whispered in my thoughts, “I didn’t know you knew the meaning of the word ‘existential.’ ”

  Don’t crack wise with me, doll, I can scare this room into next week.

  “Rule number one: Don’t haunt the customers.”

  Nix to your rules. And anyway, what’s the scoop on Peanut Girl these days?

  “The last I’d read of her, she’d hired a high-priced New York City criminal defense attorney. And according to Gossip magazine, the attorney is planning a lovesick twist on the infamous “Twinkie defense” that got off Harvey Milk’s killer—”

  Back up, babe. What’s a Twinkie? And who the hell’s Harvey Milk?