“You know, the man even called him ‘Spenser for Hire,’ and now Spence thinks he’s named after a Robert B. Parker private detective. It made him happy, so I didn’t remind him that he’s actually named after a McClure.”
“Pen!” called Sadie not ten minutes later. “There’s some people to see you.”
I looked up to find two familiar faces approaching the counter.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. McClure,” said Timothy Brennan’s daughter, Deirdre Brennan-Franken.
She doesn’t look good. That was my first impression, and it had nothing to do with fashion. In fact, her emerald suit with matching scarf was as impeccably tailored as the burgundy outfit she’d worn the night before. But today her cheeks were sunken, her red hair unwashed, her eyes bloodshot. She looked as though she’d been crying all night.
Beside her, Kenneth Franken stood, wearing that same beautiful camel-hair jacket, a fresh white shirt, open-collared, and pressed brown slacks.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” said Deirdre, “with your store so busy and everything, but . . .”
I immediately lifted up the counter, and Sadie took my place at the register. Then I ushered Deirdre and Kenneth away from the crowded main store and into the quieter community events space. After I set up a few folding chairs, we all sat.
“I wanted to come by sooner,” said Deirdre, “but we had a lot to take care of, speaking to family members, my father’s lawyer, and the state investigators had so many questions.” She glanced at her husband, who looked especially uncomfortable with the mention of the police.
“I’m so sorry about what happened, Mrs. Franken. The way he died, right in front of you. It’s quite a shock, something like that, I know from personal experience. You should really be taking it easy—give yourself time to grieve. . . .”
Suddenly Deirdre burst into tears, putting her head in her hands. I looked at Kenneth, who frowned and quickly pulled out a handkerchief for her. He didn’t need it, I noted; his eyes were as dry as petrified bone.
“That’s the trouble, Mrs. McClure,” she said as she wiped her eyes. “A part of me is actually glad he’s dead.”
“You shouldn’t say that,” I told her. And yet a secret part of me understood completely. Not so much because of Timothy Brennan, but Calvin McClure.
“I know, I know,” said Deidre. “It’s terrible. But it’s how I feel. He was a contemptible man. Thoroughly selfish and so very cruel—a bully really, especially to Ken—”
“You still shouldn’t say it,” I warned. “I mean, I know it’s how you feel, and I know that’s the truth of death—that it can stir up many things, as much resentment and rage as anything else, but the reason you shouldn’t say it is because the State Police are investigating his death. And you don’t want to give them the wrong idea. Especially if you’re inheriting anything.”
“I’m inheriting everything,” said Deirdre. “It all comes to me. Even his third wife isn’t getting a penny—because he’d already grown tired of her and was planning a divorce.”
“Then you really should keep your feelings private,” I said.
“Oh, that’s what Ken told me, too, but the cat’s out of the bag. I blurted out exactly how I felt to that State Police lieutenant this morning. Marsh’s investigation is a waste of time, anyway.” She waved her hand as if it were behind her already. “The autopsy results will clear all that up. My father had a weak heart. It’s obvious that’s why he died.”
“Well, I really wouldn’t give any more statements,” I said. “Your lawyer should be the one to do that.”
“That’s what I told her,” said Ken Franken.
“That’s right, but I’m quite able to speak for myself. That’s partly why I came back to see you. I wanted to have a press conference here when the autopsy results come in,” said Deirdre. “Would that be all right?”
“Of course,” I said.
“And . . . this is really trivial, but earlier today I couldn’t find my makeup bag, and I can only think that I must have left it in the ladies’ room here last night. I’m so scatterbrained sometimes before my father speaks that I tend to do that sort of thing. Anyway, I did check back there, but it’s gone. Your aunt intercepted me. She said she didn’t know anything about it, but she suggested I speak to you. Did you find it? It’s a small red zipper bag, monogrammed with my initials.”
I shifted uneasily. “Mrs. Franken, if you left your makeup bag in our rest room, I’m afraid the State Police forensic team has it now.”
“What?” Kenneth Franken rose in outrage, his tall frame towering over both Deirdre and me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but they were here this morning, bagging and tagging the leftover food and drinks and anything else suspicious they could find.”
“How could you let them?!” cried Ken.
I stood up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Franken, but they didn’t ask. They had a warrant.”
“Ken, please,” said Deirdre, jumping between us. “Don’t take it out on poor Mrs. McClure.”
“I’m going to look myself,” said Ken, fuming.
“Dear, it’s the ladies’ room,” said Deidre.
“So I’ll knock first,” he said. “Excuse me.”
Kenneth strode away, none too happy, and Deirdre turned to me. “I’m so sorry about that, Mrs. McClure. Ken and I . . . we’ve had our marital troubles, you know? And I think Ken has been overprotective of me in hopes of showing me . . . showing me he wants to make things up. I hope you understand.”
“Of course,” I said. “Please don’t worry about anything. I’m sure it will all work out just fine. And in the meantime, why don’t you stop by Colleen’s Beauty Shop? She has a line of cosmetics that I’m sure will hold you over until you can get your own things back.”
“It’s a shame,” said Deirdre.
“About your father?”
“About my makeup bag. I had some imported skin treatments in there. Quite expensive.” Deirdre sighed and shook her head. “Oh, well.” Then she looked up and around the room—the same room where her father had expired less than twenty-four hours before.
Finally her eyes met mine. “I cried all night, Mrs. McClure. So don’t think I’m not sorry to lose him. He may have been a bastard . . . but he was my father.”
“I understand. More than you know, Mrs. Franken. And if there’s anything more I can do . . .”
She shook her head, and when Kenneth Franken returned, they departed, empty-handed.
CHAPTER 10
Inquiring Minds
“You goofed, Fletcher. You goofed big.”
“What did I do?”
“You quoted somebody who’s been dead for two years . . .”
“Who says he’s dead?”
—Managing Editor Frank Jaffee, trying to fire reporter Irwin Fletcher in Fletch and the Widow Bradley by Gregory Mcdonald, 1981
BY SUNSET, THE crowd had thinned and the streets of Old Q were quieting down. There were about twenty people left browsing—more than Sadie used to get in an entire week before we’d renovated—but by today’s yardstick, the store was practically deserted.
After we polished off a Franzetti’s cheese pizza on our feet, I sent Spence upstairs with a children’s mystery under his arm, thank goodness. He’d wanted to read a “Spenser for Hire” story, but I showed him that Mr. Parker’s books were a little too long and too complicated for a boy his age to read (not to mention too violent and risqué).
I slyly suggested he start his mystery reading with a book that would help him improve his reading ability, so he could one day read all about his namesake: Spenser for Hire. That did the trick. He picked out Louis Sachar’s Newbery-winning Holes, and announced he was going to read every book in the children’s section by next summer. Then he was off.