“Not really. All it takes is a request from a town official—the mayor, the police, or a town councilman—to bring in the Staties,” explained Eddie. “And if the circumstances require it, a warrant can be issued within minutes.”
“Great. Thanks for the civics lesson.”
I told myself it didn’t matter. Once the autopsy came through—and it was officially established that Timothy Brennan’s death was from natural causes—then all of this was sure to go away. But a voice inside told me that my troubles were only beginning. And another voice—not mine at all—said something I didn’t want to hear:
Baby, sounds to me like you’re a picture being fitted for a frame, and the name of that frame is murder.
I leaned against the counter, trying to catch my breath. I told myself to ignore the “ghost” voice and be reasonable, logical, practical.
“Brennan wasn’t murdered,” I silently told myself—and that annoying deep voice. “He died of some sort of stroke or heart attack. An autopsy will certainly prove it, and then all this . . . mess will go away.”
Officer Franzetti was still speaking, but I just nodded at his words, not really hearing them.
Outside, I noticed the crowd swelling. Even on top of the other shocks of this morning, that surprised me. I thought the arrival of the State Police would have scared them off. Instead it seemed to attract even more curious people.
I searched the crowd for the face of Josh, the young man from Salient House. But he was gone—the only one the army of State Policemen seemed to scare, I noted.
“Eddie, excuse me,” I suddenly said. “I need to go upstairs, see to my son, and clean up.”
“Oh, sure, Pen. Take your time.” His chin gestured toward the Staties at work. “I know they will.”
Great. Just great, I thought. A record crowd at opening, and we’re closed for an episode of CSI.
CHAPTER 8
Curious Jack
There are things happening. . . . They go on right under your very nose and you never know about them.
—Mike Hammer, My Gun Is Quick by Mickey Spillane, 1950
AFTER ALL THESE decades, the ghost of Jack Shepard knew the layout at 122 Cranberry like the back of his hand—that is, like he used to know the back of his hand.
Six rooms occupied the second floor: a sunny eat-in kitchen with faded gold wallpaper and yellow curtains, a cozy living room with a smoke-stained fireplace and tall front windows, two large bedrooms, one child-size bedroom, and one bath. The old rooms were always kept tidy, but they showed the wear and age of an owner who had neither the wealth nor the youth to upgrade them.
The ghost of Jack Shepard tailed Penelope Thornton-McClure up the stairs and into those well-worn rooms. First stop: her son’s bedroom, a ten-by-ten space in need of repainting. The kid was still asleep on a small twin bed. Like the chest of drawers and nightstand, the white wood headboard displayed scratches and knicks, but the Curious George covers appeared clean and new. When Penelope kissed her son’s copper bangs, he stirred.
“Mom?”
“Morning, honey. How did you sleep?”
The boy sat up. Yawned. Frowned. “Bad dream,” he said.
“Again?” asked Penelope, sitting on the narrow bed. “Same kind?”
The kid nodded his head in the affirmative. Penelope hugged her son close and rocked him for a long minute.
Jack had been in Penelope’s head for a while now, so he knew all about the kid—and her unending worry.
Apparently the kid had gone through grief counseling at school just after his father killed himself. At first, Penelope’s instinct was to keep him close to her, but her in-laws pushed hard for her to “get him back to a normal routine.” So, just as school ended, Spencer was sent away on his usual two weeks of foreign-language camp. After only one night, the kid called home, terrorized by nightmares, begging his mother to come get him.
“There’s this rare genetic disease that I once read about in a novel, familial dysautonomia,” she’d told her Aunt Sadie early one morning over coffee. “One in something like four hundred thousand children are born with it—they cannot feel physical pain. This condition is quite dangerous because pain, when you think about, is actually useful, a valuable warning against hazards, illness, coming disease. No mother would want her child to suffer from not knowing he’d broken a bone or burned his finger. But when you see your child’s face, completely bewildered, at his father’s funeral; when you hear him crying at night that Daddy left, that he killed himself, and maybe you will, too—well, you can understand why I wished some rare genetic disease existed that prevented all forms of emotional pain.”
Jack watched Penelope’s fingers lightly stroke her son’s hair. “I’m not going anywhere, honey. I’m right here. With you,” she whispered. “And that’s where I’m going to stay. We’re in this together. You and me—and Aunt Sadie, too. And we’re going to make this new life work. You got that?”
The boy’s head, tucked tight to his mother’s shoulder, nodded.
Mee-uuuwww . . .
At the bottom of the kid’s bed, that little orange striped kitten they’d named “Bookmark” stirred and stretched and reached out its little orange paws. Jack didn’t much go in for cute. But he supposed the furry thing was okay. And it seemed to cheer up the kid, who reached out to pet the kitten’s head.
The kitten began to purr. Then it stopped, arched its back, hissed at the corner where Jack was hanging, and fled from the room.
Damn stool-pigeon cat.
Pen stared after the kitten in obvious puzzlement. “She’s probably hungry, don’t you think?”
The boy nodded quickly.
“And I bet you are, too, right?”
“I suppose.”
“Well, there’s shredded wheat and blueberries on the table and milk in the fridge,” said Penelope. “Pour some Kitten Chow for Bookmark, okay? I’ll be in to eat with you in a few minutes. And after you eat breakfast and wash up, I’d like you to get dressed and come down and hang out with me and Aunt Sadie in the bookstore today, okay? Take a break from the TV for a little while.”
“Aw, Mom, do I have to?” he said with another yawn.
“What do you think?” called Penelope as she left the room. The bath appeared to be the widow’s next stop, which didn’t discourage Jack’s surveillance in the least.
Ancient aquamarine tiles covered the walls and floors; several were cracked, but all were spotlessly clean. Homemade shelves of rough blond wood held thick towels. A chipped old sink stood on a pedestal beside a small toilet. And against the far wall sat a big claw-footed tub, around which hung a shower curtain with a marine life themed design.
Penelope kicked off her slingback shoes as soon as she stepped onto the tiled floor. He watched her reach behind the whales, dolphins, and their ilk to fiddle with the old porcelain handles. For a long minute, she stood there, letting the stream sluice between her fingers. “Too cold,” she thought with calm annoyance. And then, “Too hot.”
As she continued to let the water flow, Jack could hear its deep drumming as it beat against the tub. He could feel the steam building up in the bathroom air, see the fog forming on the mirror above the old chipped sink.
The small window of blue-and-green stained glass was wide open, and the warm September breeze blew in, its fragrance sweetened by roses on the town green. Pines from a nearby thicket offered a pungent streak, along with the slight tinge of marshy salt carried in from the ocean miles away.