“Oh, no. Not you.”
Yes, me. The Jack Shepard voice was deep and rough and loud in my head.
“You’re not real,” I silently told it. “And I’m not listening.”
Forget that moron. He’s not who he’s pretending to be. I’d make book on it.
“Get lost. I mean it!”
I was in no mood to talk to Jack’s voice, but he was loud and insistent—and, even though I knew he wasn’t real, his invasion of my privacy felt real enough. Frankly, I was indignant.
I don’t know, doll. Seems to me you need a private eye on your side around here—even one who got lead poisoning fifty years back.
“And what makes you think so?”
Howie Westwood.
“What about him?”
He conned you.
“How do you know that?”
Simple observations, sugar. That’s all it took. The guy’s as phony as a three-dollar bill.
“Shows what you know. Or what you don’t. He’s a magazine writer. His name’s listed in the Independent Bookseller staff box.”
So the hood found a good cover? So what? That doesn’t explain the contradictions.
“What contradictions?”
You ought to try picking up a few pointers from some of the books you sell around here. Look, I know you noticed the guy was musclebound. His grip alone practically made you wince. You noticed the calluses, too. How many bookworms you know look like they can punch out a street cop?
“He could have been a fit bookworm,” Penelope said. “He did have glasses, which is common among people who make their living reading.”
Fake.
“Fake?”
The glass was clear. Not prescription. I’ll give you a pass on noticing that one, since you couldn’t get close enough. But I could. And did.
“But . . .”
Yeah?
“Those little round frames give a man a certain look,” I silently said. “He might be wearing them as a fashion statement.”
Doll, repeat after me: Men. Do not. Make fashion statements.
“Maybe they didn’t in your time. But they do now. Oh, why am I speaking to you as if you’re really the ghost of Jack Shepard?!! You’re just a voice. A stupid, silly voice in my head.”
And another thing—those set of pearly whites. Big, perfect ivories like that don’t happen in nature. God can’t even afford to give sets like that away. And, as far as I know, neither can a small magazine like the one your “Howie” claimed he worked for—
“He’s not my Howie—”
So tell me, doll, how many people in the book publishing game can afford that set of choppers? Not many, I’d wager. But it’s the sort of mouth job someone in a high-priced profession could afford. What does that tell you?
“Nothing. Just like you.”
You’re just stung ’cause nothing came of giving that chump the glad eye—
“Excuse me, but if you insist on speaking, would you mind speaking English?”
Don’t get your panties in a bunch, sister. I’m speaking English, all right. You gave Howie Westwood the glad eye. You were looking him over good, flirting with him, even fantasizing a few racy things if I’m not mistaken.
“I most certainly was not!”
Spin your yarns for Auntie, not me.
“What?!”
You’re not married anymore. So why be ashamed of admitting to a new attraction?
Penelope sighed. “I wasn’t attracted. Not really. I just wondered—”
Yeah, I get it. You wanted to know if you could still get a Joe hot in the zipper. Well, you certainly could have in my time, doll. You’re what we called whistle bait—and if I were alive, you and me, we’d be heating up your sheets in no time flat.
Penelope couldn’t believe a mere delusion was making her flush scarlet. “Must you be so vulgar?”
What is it about you fair-play Janes wanting prissy little packages? Everything’s got to be presented all neat and pretty and correct. But guess what, doll, life ain’t like that. People aren’t like that. They’re angry and jealous and ugly and weak—and full of primal feelings, as you well know.
“They’re not all that way. People can be good. And fair. And courageous and selfless. My mother was. My father was . . . for a while, before my mother died. And my aunt definitely is—and so are the good people of this town.”
Verdict’s out on your townie friends, sweetheart. But I’ll be watching.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” I said. Then I raised my chin, turned on my heel, and strode back toward the checkout counter. Thankfully, the Jack Shepard delusion of mine didn’t follow.
CHAPTER 11
Shadow Boxing
Midnight, I dare say. . . . That’s the word.
The time when the graves give up their dead, and ghosts walk.
—Dashiell Hammett, The Dain Curse, 1928
TWO HOURS LATER, at three minutes after nine, Sadie rang up the last of the day’s Shield of Justice purchases for a well-dressed, middle-aged couple who also had a taste for the Kellermans—Jonathan and Faye.
No longer capable of smiles, I wisely let Sadie answer their chatty questions and politely send them on their way. The moment they departed, I threw the lock, flipped the sign to read CLOSED, and fell against the door.
“Tired?” Aunt Sadie asked. As she began to empty the register and count the day’s receipts, I collapsed into a nearby chair and stared vacantly at the intentionally rustic charm of the exposed beams in our ceiling.
“Now, why would I be tired?” I replied. “Could it be that I was living through one of the most eventful days in my life with a horrendous hangover—the result of alcohol ingested at your urging, by the way? Or maybe it was the threat from Councilwoman Binder-Smith to shut us down? Or the State Police raid that pretty much capped our morning—and all this before we opened for business?”
Sadie clicked her tongue. “You’re babbling, dear. And, anyway, we can’t help it if a famous author drops dead in our store, now, can we?”
“What if Timothy Brennan didn’t just drop dead?” I asked, finally coming out with the question that had been nagging at me all day. “What if the autopsy suggests foul play? Lieutenant Marsh will want to pin the crime on someone.”
“What if pigs had wings?” said Aunt Sadie with a snort.
As I watched Sadie rubber-band thick wads of cash, my “babbling” continued. “If Brennan was the victim of foul play, then the suspect list would include those who had opportunity, access, and, of course, motive, which means we could be on the list.”
“How do you figure that?”
“For better or worse, Brennan’s death put Buy the Book on the map, didn’t it? I mean, look at all that cash—in one day’s take. We’re making money because Brennan died here. And I really didn’t want to admit this to you—or even to myself, frankly—but Lieutenant Marsh looked me up and down this morning like I was guilty.”
“Of what?”
“Anything. Anything he can make stick. I’m sure of it. And that’s what worries me. You and I both know the state won’t take over a local investigation unless they’re asked—and Councilwoman Marjorie Binder-Smith almost certainly insisted, no doubt with a tip-off to watch me for suspicious behavior.”