The Ghost and the Dead Deb Read online

  I was also pleased to note that this was a very different demographic from the usual attendees of Buy the Book’s author events. For one thing, this crowd was much younger—college-aged and decidedly female, by a margin of about ten to one. And this was an affluent audience, too. Many drove in for this event from Brown University or the Rhode Island School of Design, and as far away from Yale and Harvard, if the decals and bumper stickers on the Volkswagens, BMWs, Volvos, Jaguars, Saturns, and Accords parked along Cranberry Street were any indication.

  The visitors had been assembling since late afternoon, grabbing all the rooms at the Finch Inn—Quindicott, Rhode Island’s, only bed-and-breakfast, run by Fiona Finch and her husband, Barney—and filling the Comfy-Time Motel, which had opened up recently on the highway. They’d been tying up traffic and jostling the locals off the sidewalks since early afternoon, gathering in clumps around the diner, and crowding the commons in the center of town.

  Yet few Quindicotters complained, because these visitors were also spending lots of money—at the Seafood Shack, Cooper’s Bakery, Koh’s Market, Franzetti’s Pizza, Gilder’s Antiques, and, yes, our bookstore. It was the kind of economic activity unknown in these parts just a year ago, and I was proud of my own small part in revitalizing this formerly sleepy little Rhode Island rest-stop of a town.

  As I tried to push through the packed aisles to the back of the room, I nearly collided with another Buy the Book regular. Seymour Tarnish, avid collector of pulp magazines, was moving through the crowd, searching in vain for a seat, even as he surveyed the audience. By day, Seymour was our local mailman. On evenings and weekends, Seymour became a purveyor of frozen treats, dispensed from an ice cream truck he’d purchased a few years back with part of the money he’d won on Jeopardy!

  “Hey, Pen, good crowd,” Seymour said, grinning. “If you told me the title of Angel Stark’s book was All My Pretty Young Half-Naked Friends, I might have gotten here sooner!”

  As he spoke, Seymour scanned—wide-eyed—the sea of attractive, college-aged young women packed into Buy the Book.

  “Not funny,” I said to the forty-year-old avowed bachelor who lived in his late mother’s house with a middle-aged male roommate and their huge collection of valuable pulp magazines.

  Seymour noticed that I was wringing the life out my hands—one of the nervous habits I sometimes exhibited during author signings. My aunt Sadie has always maintained that nerves of steel were essential commodities in the always-volatile book business. Lacking same much of the time, I relied on my aunt, and co-owner, Sadie to keep an even keel.

  Me? I did all the fretting—more than enough for both of us.

  Seymour continued to relish the view. “Wow! I haven’t seen this many navels since I got a bag of oranges from my retired uncle in Miami.”

  “Didn’t you volunteer to work store security tonight?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Your aunt gave me the night off. Says your author has a publicist that’s handling everything. But I’m here to help out if you need me.”

  “Stick close,” I replied. “I don’t anticipate trouble, but this is the largest crowd we’ve drawn in quite a while—and the youngest.”

  Seymour spied a space between two young women—twins—with curly, honey-gold hair. When he was gone, I looked up in time to hear the first question from the audience, posed by a heavy-set young woman who rose when she spoke, even though she was clearly nervous. Despite the warmth in the crowded room, the questioner wore a long-sleeved Brown University shirt.

  “How has Bethany Banks’s murder affected you and your friends?” the coed asked shyly and quickly sat down again.

  Angel nodded to acknowledge the questioner, then stepped close to the microphone to answer.

  “In Comfortably Numb I spoke about emotional fallout—a term I coined—and how toxic such fallout can be. I wrote my first book to purge myself of toxic emotional fallout caused by my abusive home, my clinical depression, my promiscuous behavior, and my dependency on illegal drugs.”

  This is still a tough pill to swallow, Jack complained. You’re telling me this dame wrote this dirt about her own life. Wrote it herself and wanted it published?

  “Yes, Jack,” I silently informed him. “It’s quite common. These days it’s encouraged, often celebrated.”

  Jack grunted his dismay.

  “Bethany’s murder caused a ripple effect,” Angel continued. “Georgette LaPomeret took her own life, for example . . .”

  There goes suspect number one.

  Angel paused, gazing out at the audience. “Was it emotional fallout that drove her to suicide? Was it a kind of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder response to the murder?”

  Brainert leaned toward me and whispered, “Or did she kill herself because of your book?”

  I scowled. Not from Brainert’s comment but at the idea that the comment itself could be on the mark.

  “Or,” continued Angel, “perhaps Georgette knew something about the killing—a secret that has gone to the grave with her. I wrote in my book that I believe Georgette was secretly in love with Bethany’s fiancé, Donald Easterbrook. This, of course, is understandable, because Donald was Newport’s leading lothario and he’d secretly been sleeping with some of Bethany’s closest friends.”

  Hmm, murmured Jack, if that’s true, could be Bethany caught fiancé Donald cheating, flew into a rage, threatened or attacked him, and he killed her.

  Gasps of surprise were heard, and the audience leaned forward, waiting to hear more. But instead of elaborating further, Angel pointed to another audience member with a hand raised.

  This time a young man with longish brown hair and a fuzzy brown soul patch under his lower lip stood up and asked Angel the question that was probably on everybody’s mind. “Do you really know who killed Bethany Banks? Was it the dude they charged and later freed? Or was it one of her friends?”

  Angel cautiously scanned the room like a scout in front of a wagon train. “Are there any lawyers present?” she asked at last. “If so, please leave.”

  Her mock inquiry was greeted by laughter and applause. When the response died, Angel seriously addressed the man’s question.

  “I have my suspicions, of course. And if you read my book, you’ll see what I think. I can only say that I am absolutely positive that the young man who was arrested was innocent, and that someone close to Bethany Banks is the real murderer—and that’s the person who framed the catering worker. You see, there wasn’t any physical evidence linking him to Bethany’s murder, only his belt around her neck, which the killer could have easily taken with gloved hands from the worker’s unlocked locker . . . which is why they couldn’t prosecute him.

  “All the defense would have had to show was physical evidence that pointed to other people having been in that room with Bethany near the time of her murder, which there clearly were, and sufficient motive, which I amply reveal in my book, and they would have created a shadow of a doubt that would have easily meant an acquittal for that young man. Therefore, I believe, and most everyone who examined this case believes, that Bethany knew her killer, and that she left the ball to rendezvous with the person who murdered her.”

  Of course she knew her killer, said Jack. That murder was a crime of passion. Without a doubt.

  The young man with the soul patch called out a follow-up. “So why haven’t the police solved it?”

  “Two names: O. J. Simpson and Martha Moxley. As in the Simpson case, the local cops botched their handling of the physical evidence. They pinned all their expectations on a confession from the catering worker, and allowed the wealthy crowd to flee without being questioned or searched.” Angel shrugged. “After that poor catering worker was released, the case just became another example of the very rich successfully retreating behind their attorneys and high hedgerows—as teen Martha Moxley’s killer had done for decades before Mark Fuhrman broke that in Murder in Greenwich.”

  Next, a woman wearing tight jeans, a belly shirt, an
d a nose ring rose to speak.

  “Ms. Stark, it seems that you condemn Bethany Banks for the life she led—for the men she slept with and the drugs she consumed. But as a feminist yourself, don’t you feel you should be defending Bethany Banks’s right to choose whatever lifestyle she wished to live, regardless of the moral and ethical strictures placed on women by the double-standards of a sexist society?”

  Angel Stark listened to the question without even a nod. When the girl sat back down, Angel wet her lips and spoke. “I think you all know the kind of lifestyle choices I’ve made, since I’ve written about them ad nauseum—”

  Sly laughter from the audience.

  “My problem with Bethany was that she hid her true self behind a mask, as if she were ashamed of the men, the drugs, the partying. No one should ever sin and then feel bad about it. Either don’t sin, or don’t feel bad. Anyway, I’ve always believed that guilt is something best left to working-class churchgoers, nuns, and old ladies. Of course, I realize this is a cutting-edge, postmodern philosophy that flies over the heads of a population stuck in the past.”

  Sheesh. This dame really thinks she’s class on a stick, but I’ve got news for her. There’s nothing new about her attitude. In my day, she’s what was called a “debutramp.”

  “A what?” I was trying my best to ignore Jack and listen to the author I was hosting, but that last comment got me. “Come again?”

  Debutramp. Walter Winchell’s shorthand for a wild, amoral society girl.

  “Whose shorthand?”

  Walter Winchell! Jack said in a tone that showed he was clearly astonished and annoyed that I didn’t recognize the name. Vaudeville man turned New York Evening Graphic and Daily Mirror gossip columnist? Scandal sheet hound turned radio personality? Walter . . . Winchell . . .

  “Uh . . . sorry . . .” I replied.

  Aw, forget it.

  I turned to Seymour. “I guess everything is under control here—”

  Everything except the broad at the podium—

  I ignored Jack. “Seymour, have you ever heard of Walter Winchell?”

  “The newspaperman from the twenties and thirties? Sure, Pen, who hasn’t?”

  I blushed and changed the subject. “So I’m going to make sure we’re ready for the author signing.” Then I raced to the front counter on the selling floor where Aunt Sadie was assisting a few locals now staring with open curiosity at the laughing, youthful crowd overflowing from the events room. Mina Griffith, our part-time clerk, worked the cash register.

  “Angel Stark is still answering questions, but she’ll be done soon. Are we ready for her?” I asked, still giving Lady Macbeth a run for her money with my hand wringing.

  Sadie reached out and gently pushed my arms to my sides. “Nerves of steel,” she reminded me, finger raised.

  “Is the table—”

  “All set up and ready,” Aunt Sadie declared. Like me, she’d dressed for tonight’s event, abandoning her usual casual slacks, loose T-shirt, and open denim shirt for a new, powder-blue dress. She’d even stopped by Colleen’s Beauty Shop to get the gray rinsed auburn and those “Shirley MacLaine” strawberry-blonde highlights put in.

  “And the books?” I asked.

  “Stacked and ready to go, Mrs. McClure,” Mina said with confidence.

  I smiled at the girl. A tall, slender St. Francis College student with flyaway light brown hair and freckles, Mina was a sweet, quiet kid who devoured books and hoped to one day become a librarian.

  I exhaled with relief. “Looks like you two have got it covered. So, I’ll just—”

  “Go back inside and relax,” Aunt Sadie insisted. “You’ve earned it, dear, setting up this whole shindig in the first place. Believe me, everything’s under control.”

  Before going into partnership with me a year ago, my aunt had never attempted author appearances like this one. I was the one who’d urged her to agree to the store’s complete remodeling, an inventory overhaul, and the addition of the new Community Events space. But whether it was Sadie’s years in the book trade or just her seventy-three years on earth, the lady’s nerves were clearly tempered into firmer stuff than mine.

  Just then I heard a woman’s hysterical shouts echo out of the events room. I froze, trying and failing to make out what she was saying.

  A second later, Seymour Tarnish, ashen-faced, burst out of the room and ran toward me. “Better call the cops!” he called. “You’ve got a riot on your hands!”

  CHAPTER 3

  Accuse Me?

  Not only could she spit a curve in your eye, but she could cuss for minutes at a time without repeating.

  —Walter Winchell, New York Evening Graphic, 1929

  SEYMOUR’S FRANTIC PLEA was followed by a loud cry, then the clatter of a metal folding chair as it struck the hardwood floor. Before I realized I was moving, I raced across the length of the store and into the packed events room.

  Most of the audience members were still seated. But many were on their feet, especially those seated in the first few rows where, apparently, the trouble had started. Near the center of the third row, I spied the overturned chair. Standing next to it was a petite young woman, her straw-blonde hair tied into a tight ponytail. Her eyes were bright as she shouted and shook her fist at Angel Stark—or rather, at Angel’s publicist Dana Wu, who had thrown herself between the ranting young woman and her client.

  “Lies! Lies! I hope someone makes you pay for your lies,” the woman cried, her voice strident and full of rage, yet trembling as if she were fighting back tears. “You’re smearing Bethany’s name. You and your stupid books and your filthy lies. Why did you come here? No one wants you . . . No one wants you anywhere near us, you bitch! Why don’t you just die and leave us all in peace!”

  Despite the harsh emotion that twisted the young woman’s face, she possessed a gangly, adolescent beauty. She wore no makeup and her casual clothes were typical of a college freshman—a Brown University T-shirt and cargo shorts.

  I tried to approach the woman, intending to calm her even as I escorted her out. But so many people were on their feet and filing out of the row of chairs that I found myself swimming against a human tide. I saw Brainert, watching the whole scene with a bemused expression.

  Meanwhile, hands tugged at the woman, trying to pull her back, away from the podium. Two women, roughly the same age as the heckler, were attempting—so far unsuccessfully—to mollify the distraught woman.

  One of the two was at least a head taller than the heckler. Dressed in a black tank top and lowrider jeans, her shoulder-length raven hair contrasted starkly with her pale skin, and her pierced lower lip was curled into a frown. She had grabbed the ranting woman by the shoulders and was attempting to speak to her.

  The other woman was dressed in a pink sundress and sandals and was compelled to push back long, red curls that danced around her flushed face as she gamely tried to drag her friend away from the confrontation.

  I was hoping Brainert would do something, but he seemed stunned by the action. Then Seymour appeared at my shoulder. Arms raised, he made a valiant effort at taking control of the audience. “Everyone! Calm down!”

  With chaos whirling around me, and visions of lawsuits dancing in my head, it was definitely not the time for the ghost of Jack Shepard to speak up.

  So of course he did.

  What a hairball! Sounds like a speakeasy raid.

  “Not now, Jack.”

  Then take my two cents and give that little girl the bum’s rush solo, before your big-draw, money-in-the-bank author takes it on the chin.

  “Butt out,” I told Jack as I pushed past Seymour.

  It occurred to me that I’d spoken out loud when Seymour faced me. He had the hurt expression of an abused puppy.

  “Hey, Pen . . . I was just trying to help . . .”

  “I wasn’t referring to you, Seymour. I . . . I mean the troublemaker,” I lied.

  As it turned out, no more help was needed. The girl’s companions had cal
med her. Clinging to her girlfriends, the young woman allowed herself to be led away. The crowd parted as the trio moved to the door. The young woman, tears streaming down her face, muttered apologies to her companions as they moved up the aisle.

  Like the others, Seymour stood aside to let them pass, even as I exchanged looks with the woman’s two companions.

  “Can I help?” I asked. The tall girl with the short black hair and the pierced lip shoved me aside with a strength that surprised me.

  “Get out of the way, bitch,” she hissed, glancing over her shoulder at the podium. Her words evoked gasps from those within earshot.

  I threw up my hands in surrender and backed away. As the trio made their exit, all eyes watched them go.

  A pale, frowning Dana Wu was still clutching the microphone stand, legs braced as the eyes returned to the stage. The publicist seemed determined to protect her client until the rabid young woman was out of the building.

  Then I peered over Dana’s shoulder, into the bright brown eyes of Angel Stark. She didn’t seem disturbed in the least by the ugly scene—even though some of the heckler’s angry words bordered on criminal threats. She seemed almost pleased. Obviously, this was an author who loved to shock her fans. And she’d wowed them again. But I couldn’t share her enthusiasm.

  As members of the crowd took their seats and waited for the Q & A to resume, I hurried toward the exit, intent on tracking the troublemaking trio. But before I passed through the archway that led from the large Community Events space to the main bookstore, I noticed that one woman, near the side of the room, had not reclaimed her seat.

  The tall, thin woman with light blue eyes, long, straight blonde hair, sunken cheeks, and a small, pointy chin had remained on her feet to fire poisonous eye daggers directly at me. Our gazes locked—as if she expected me to recognize her. Or was she challenging me to approach her?

  I was concerned enough to comply, but was interrupted by the amplified screech of our public address system. Angel Stark was trying to speak, but her words were lost in electronic distortion. I turned from the dagger-staring blonde and rushed toward the microphone box to fix the problem.