I turned to the woman and asked, “Can I help you?”
“The spirit is in torment. It cries out!” the woman said, loud enough for the other customers to notice. “The spirit demands justice.”
This woman sounds sincere, I decided. My heart began to beat faster, wondering for a moment if Jack could be wrong.
“Is this woman really a sensitive?” I asked Jack.
Yeah, she’s sensitive, all right. said Jack. To bathtub gin and rotgut whiskey.
The woman spun on her heels, her dress billowing.
“Oh, yes,” she said, gazing at the ceiling. “It is the ghost of Timothy Brennan, cursed to haunt these premises until his murderer is punished.”
Brennan? said Jack. Here for eternity? Look around, toots. There ain’t a barstool or bookie in sight. Why would Brennan bother to stay in this place?
“I must listen for his voice!” she cried.
Shut her up, would you? Jack told me. Or I’ll scare the hell out of her myself.
“Don’t do that!” I silently warned Jack. “There are too many people around!”
“Ma’am,” I said, touching her shoulder. She spun on me.
“Do not touch a sensitive!” she screeched. I recoiled.
That’s it! Jack cried.
A moment later, the woman’s eyes bulged. Her jaw dropped.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Are you all right?”
“J-J-ack . . . J-j-jack Sh-sh-shepard!” she stammered, pointing at me.
“Great,” I thought. “Jack, what in the world are you doing?”
I’m projecting, he said. On you.
NOW GET THE HELL OUT OF MY STORE!
The woman screamed and ran. No one seemed to be aware of Jack or me. Or the fact that he’d just screamed so loud in my head I’d automatically put my hands to my ears—as useless as that was. All eyes were on the crazed lady running for the door.
“Well, that was certainly an education,” I told him.
Ha! Didn’t think I had it in me, did you?
“Actually, I didn’t.”
Well, it’s not a piece of cake or anything, said Jack. But when I’m really worked up . . .
“Remind me never to really work you up.”
With a sigh, my gaze followed the trail of the exiting lady—and my body froze. I felt as though I’d seen a ghost—but not Jack’s ghost, more like the ghost of felons past.
As the “sensitive” barreled through the front doorway, she jostled a familiar middle-aged woman. It was Anna Worth, the cereal heiress herself—returning to the scene of the crime, if Fiona Finch’s theory was correct.
This time Anna Worth came with a solicitous-looking older man in tow. He looked like a professor, graying at the temples and wearing tweed, with leather patches on his jacket.
Anna Worth, on the other hand, looked the height of fashion. Her sheer peach pantsuit was beautifully tailored, and pink-tinted sunglasses sat on top of her pale blond shoulder-length hair. I probably would not have recognized her had I not seen dozens of photographs of her at various ages not two hours ago. Seymour recognized her, too, and he casually moved toward the counter.
Despite her elegant attire, Anna Worth gave the impression not of a regal heiress but of a mouse stepping into the home of a very hungry feline. The farther into the store she moved, the more noticeably her shoulders drooped, the more rapidly her eyes began to dart about. When they finally strayed in the direction of the community space, she visibly paled.
The older man instantly reacted to her discomfort. He took her arm and steered the now nervous wreck of an heiress to the other end of the store, seating her in one of the Shaker rockers. She sat, and he kneeled at her side, speaking softly into her ear.
“Pssssst, Jack!” I thought as loudly as I could. “Be a help, would you, and eavesdrop on their conversation for me?”
I received no reply, and just hoped he had already gotten the same idea and was preoccupied with his “surveillance work” already.
Seymour leaned against the counter and said in a conversational tone, “Gee, maybe murderers do return to the scene of the crime.”
“Shhhhhh!” I hissed.
“Come on, you don’t really think this eighties flashback bumped off Brennan, do you? Fiona Finch has read one too many true crime books.”
“Look, look, she’s moving again,” Sadie whispered from the corner of her mouth.
Anna Worth had risen from the rocker and, with child-like baby steps, she began to move. Her companion followed her, rubbing his chin and eyeing Anna closely. The woman paused, and the man rushed to her side. Whispering, they moved through aisles of books, never once glancing at a title. Whatever they were doing here, they certainly weren’t here to purchase some light beach reading.
Seymour grinned and poked my arm. “Here’s your chance,” he said.
“Huh?”
“Follow them.”
“They’ll see me.”
“But you own the place,” Seymour insisted. “You’re practically help. And rich people like Anna Worth never notice the help. Ever. So go over and restock the shelves.”
I must have had a blank expression on my face because Seymour didn’t wait for my reply. Rolling his eyes, he reached into my carefully arranged new-releases section and grabbed a handful of titles off the table—the new Patricia Cornwell paperback, a Janet Evanovich, a brand-new thriller by Ed McBain, a short fiction collection by James Ellroy—and thrust them into my arms.
“Go restock the shelves,” he repeated, giving me a push.
Resigning myself to the inevitable, I pushed my black rectangular glasses up my nose; took a deep breath; and, assuming an air of what I hoped was casual indifference, set off to put copies of my brand-new releases among the older titles. A retailing erratum, but I told myself I was doing it in the name of ratiocination.
It didn’t take me but a minute to spot Anna Worth and her friend. They were standing near the Dennis Lehane novels. The closest letter I had in my hand was “M,” so Ed McBain would have to do. I approached the couple unseen. Fortunately, they were lost in conversation.
“Work through it,” the man whispered. “Face your darkest fears or they will own you, Anna.”
Anna Worth replied, but so softly I couldn’t hear her words.
I moved a little closer, pretending to adjust the Kellerman section—Jonathan and Faye—and even a Harry Kellerman rabbi mystery.
“You hated that man,” Tweedy replied. “How did it feel to watch him fall . . . to watch him die?”
His words startled me, and the entire Faye Kellerman collection tumbled to the floor. Anna Worth and the man spun around to face me. Anna had that deer-in-the-headlights stare.
It’s now or never, doll, Jack said in my head. Go ahead and ask.
Before I knew it, my mouth moved, and I spoke. “You’re Anna Worth, aren’t you? My name is Penelope Thornton-McClure, the co-owner of this store. I saw you here the other night, when Timothy Brennan died.”
Anna’s mouth moved, but no words came out. I could see torment—guilt, perhaps?—on her face. Whatever it was, her look made me bolder.
“Why were you here, Ms. Worth?” I said. “Surely you’re no fan of Mr. Brennan’s work.”
Anna Worth clutched Tweedy’s arm and turned her face away. “Please, Doctor, do something,” she whispered.
“Ms. McClure,” the man said indignantly, “surely you can see that this woman is distraught!”
“I can see that,” I replied. Then I turned to Anna Worth. “I am terribly sorry if I upset you. Of course, we’re all upset, knowing that we may have all witnessed a murder right here in this store the other night. You have heard the news, Ms. Worth? The police suspect foul play . . . poison.”