They could be in it together. Who else?
“Deirdre said Brennan was about to divorce his third wife. Maybe she tried something.”
Wouldn’t Deirdre or Brennan have recognized Brennan’s wife at the event last night?
“Oh, yes, that’s right. They would have.”
She could have hired someone, though—a doll willing to do the dirty deed. And there could be other suspects with motives we just haven’t uncovered yet.
“What about Shelby Cabot? Josh reports to her. So it makes sense he’d do a favor for her like retrieve the syringe. But what motive could she have? Unless she was hired by Brennan’s wife.”
It’s a long shot. So far Deirdre and you look like the prime suspects.
“Me?!”
Don’t act so shocked, doll; you said it yourself earlier. You’re benefiting from the murder, aren’t you? You and Sadie.
“The police haven’t called it a murder yet.”
But you know they think there’s foul play. They’re just waiting for the medical examiner to give them the toxicology evidence before they make their arrest.
Penelope took a deep breath. “Then what do I do next?”
Suddenly a tap, tap, tapping sounded on the store’s arched front window, and Penelope nearly jumped out of her skin. Jack didn’t have any skin, but the vibrations startled him, too.
Looks like you’ve got a visitor, said Jack. And a late one at that. So here’s my professional, expert opinion about what to do next—
“What?”
Answer the door.
CHAPTER 14
Strangers in the Night
Somebody was nuts. I was nuts. Everybody was nuts.
None of it fitted together worth a nickel.
—Philip Marlowe, “Trouble Is My Business” by Raymond Chandler, Dime Detective magazine, August 1939.
OUTSIDE IN THE darkness, a trench-coated figure stood beyond the bookstore’s rain-splattered window. An open umbrella, tilted at an angle, masked the face.
“Who is it?” I whispered to Jack.
How should I know? I’m a spirit, not a psychic.
Tap, tap, tap went the person at the window once more. I stepped around the counter and into a cone of light cast by the ceiling fixtures. The big black umbrella moved, and I recognized the pretty pert face and short, shiny, raven hair of Shelby Cabot, the publicist from Salient House. She caught sight of me and waved.
“What should I say to her?” I whispered to Jack. “I mean, to get her to say what she might know about Josh and Deirdre and Kenneth?”
Just get her talking. About anything. Then turn the conversation where you want it, so she doesn’t get wise to being grilled.
“Okay,” I murmured, “wish me luck.”
Baby, you don’t need luck in this profession. What you need is brains, and you got plenty, so go to it.
I unbolted the door, and Shelby stepped in. “I know it’s late, Mrs. McClure,” she said as she shook the large umbrella, dripping water all over my newly restored plank floor. “I was strolling by the store and saw the lights on and, well—”
“Uh-huh,” I replied, frankly dubious that anyone would be “strolling by” on a night like this one.
Shelby pulled off her sopping raincoat and draped it over a nearby Shaker-style rocker. Dribbling water puddled in the cross-hatched seat.
“I heard sales were brisk today,” she said.
“Oh, yes.”
“How wonderful!” she exclaimed, though her forced grin gave me the impression she didn’t care in the least.
I turned to bolt the door, but something caught my attention: a man was loitering across the street, just beyond the dull beams of the streetlight on the corner. In my head, I whispered to Jack, “Who is that standing across the street?”
How should I know? he said.
“What kind of response is that?! You’re supposed to be a private eye. Go on over and find out!”
Can’t leave the premises, doll. Don’t ask me why.
“Why?”
Because I don’t have an answer.
Frustrated with Jack’s double-talk, I stared harder beyond the door’s pane, trying to make out the details of the dark silhouette, but I didn’t recognize the rain slicker, and the big hood was pulled up and around the man’s face.
I’d been peering through the window so intensely, I nearly jumped when Shelby spoke up behind me: “I don’t suppose you received that special order yet? The one I had sent directly from our warehouse?”
I turned to face her, noticing the woman’s gaze was not on me at all. She’d been looking at the figure across the street, too. When I answered, however, she immediately shifted her eyes to me.
“Actually, five hundred hardcovers arrived this morning,” I said.
“Isn’t it convenient the Salient House warehouse is just an hour away,” said Shelby. “Normally, an order like that would take much longer to fulfill.”
“Yes, I was surprised by the speed—but I was absolutely shocked by the amount of books in the order. I mean, last night, you said ‘a few’ more books would be charged to our account number. I can’t figure where ‘a few’ translates into twenty cartons.”
“Of course, Salient House will accept any returns—”
“To tell you the truth, when the delivery man rolled all of those boxes in this morning, I feared we’d never move so many copies. But we’ve already sold more than half the shipment. It turns out you were right to order so many.”
“I’m so glad,” Shelby replied. “I could see from the way you’d mismanaged the event room setup last night that you wouldn’t be on top of your inventory needs, either.”
Did she just take a shot at me? I wondered.
She aimed and fired, all right, Jack said in my head.
“Well, as new releases go, I can’t say that I have any experience managing inventory for a circumstance like this one,” I said politely, evading an accusation that her large order did force us into a position where we appeared to be exploiting an author’s sudden death.
The implication didn’t seem to bother Shelby in the least. “Of course, it’s understandable how the whole thing was just beyond your abilities to handle,” she answered breezily. “Isn’t it fortuitous the way it all turned out—that I was able to do the right thing for you and your store? At Salient House, we’re often exasperated by the provincial attitudes of our unsophisticated vendors, especially those independent booksellers not based in major urban areas. So many such booksellers just aren’t willing to take full advantage of a situation.”
In typical “corporate speak”—polite, evasive, and nonspecific—I guess the tragedy of Timothy Brennan’s death could be called a “situation.”
“This store is impressive,” Shelby said, moving suddenly from insulting to ingratiating. “And such a responsibility.”
“We try,” I said.
“Well, don’t feel bad about not knowing quite enough about the publishing business yet.” Shelby Cabot’s eyes locked on mine. “Just as long as you rely on the help of people like me.”
Was this woman actually trying to provoke me? I wondered.
If you’re gonna imitate a doormat, Jack barked in my head, the least you could do is stretch out on the floor so she can wipe her feet.