It’s time, Penelope, said the voice in my head. It’s time you learned how to fight.
“Okay,” I said out loud. “You’re on.”
CHAPTER 21
Booked
She thought most men were weak and trusted her brains to slide her through anything.
—Ed Exley on Lynn Bracken, L.A. Confidential by James Ellroy, 1990
I PUT THE call through to Shelby Cabot’s room at Finch’s Inn. After five rings, I heard Shelby fumble for the receiver and manage a tired “Hello?”
Double murder, it seems, can take a lot out of a gal.
“Ms. Cabot, this is Penelope Thornton-McClure.” My voice actually sounded steady despite the fist that would not stop squeezing my stomach. “I’m sorry to bother you, but something urgent has come up.”
“Mrs. . . . McClure?” Shelby said through a yawn. I could hear the rustle of Fiona’s silk sheets. “What time—”
“I found something in the store,” I said. “I believe it belongs to you.”
“I’m so sorry, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied, wide awake now. The woman’s condescending tone had regained consciousness as well, “I’m certainly not aware of losing anything. Describe it,” she snapped, “would you?”
Drop the bomb, Jack said in my head.
“It’s an item you left here on the night Timothy Brennan died. I’m sure it was what you came here to look for last night. You seemed so upset, and I did want to help you, but Mr. Franken arrived and—well, I’d wanted to speak to you privately.”
There was a long pause. Jack nudged me. Go on, doll, you’re doing fine.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said with feigned bafflement. “I must be mistaken. I wanted to help, you understand? But this medical item probably belongs to someone else. I feel so silly . . . I’m so sorry to have bothered you.”
“No, no, Mrs. McClure, I’m glad you called. As you know, I’m here to represent the interests of Salient House—and under the most unusual circumstances!”
Shelby was trying hard to sound cheerful. But even over a phone line, I could sense the strain. She let out a little laugh, but the edge of it seemed raw, like a section of scraped flesh with its nerve endings exposed.
“Timothy Brennan was one of our authors, a member of our publishing family. If this call involves the late Mr. Brennan or Salient House in any way, then I’ll be glad to come over and settle this matter right away.”
“Very good,” I said. “Shall we say fifteen minutes?”
“I . . . I may need more time. And I’d like to first ask you—”
Hang up fast, barked Jack.
“Fifteen and not a minute less or I’ll be closed.” I hung up before Shelby could make another peep.
Good job, babe. Now set the scene.
I did what Jack instructed, turning out all the store’s interior illumination except for the security lights and fire exit signs.
Drunk tanks, interrogation rooms, and jail cells are grim for a reason, Jack told me. Make this place dark as a dungeon. Pump some fright into her.
Nature was cooperating. Outside, the night was moonless, and leftover clouds from last night’s storm obstructed the usual burgeoning firmament. At this late hour on a Sunday, Cranberry Street was deserted, all the shop windows dark. I stood near the front door, peering through the glass. Behind me, the interior of Buy the Book seemed lost in a pall of shadows.
“Shelby wanted more time to dress,” I whispered very softly, so close to the glass my breath was making fog. “Why did you make me tell her fifteen minutes or not at all? What’s the point of rushing her?”
The time really doesn’t matter. What does is that you set this parley on your turf, on your terms, and at your convenience. You woke her up in the middle of the night—she’s disoriented, her judgment’s bad. Right now she’s stumbling down Cranberry Street, wondering why she’s out in the middle of the night in the first place.
She’s out there because you, Penelope, are pulling her strings like a puppetmaster. You’ve already taken control of the grilling session, and she hasn’t even arrived yet.
I blinked. What Jack said about “control” was pretty funny, considering I felt completely out of control right now. But I had to admit, his interrogation techniques impressed me. They were nothing like the stuff I usually saw on television cop shows, where good-cop/bad-cop was often the extent of the strategy. That game wouldn’t do me much good tonight. Sure, I could act the part of the marshmallow—but my hard-nosed counterpart was going to be out of sight if not completely missing in action.
“What next?” I silently asked.
Perps are all different, said Jack. And different things get under their skins. Degradation worked on Nazi officers when we had to break them during the war. We tore off their medals and insignias, stripped them of their uniforms—even their skivvies. Butt-naked, even storm troopers lose their swagger.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Jack, but I’m not ripping Shelby’s clothes off when she comes through the door.”
Too bad for me.
“Get on with it, Jack.”
Play off her prejudices. Judging from her treatment of you, Shelby pretty much thinks you’re a doormat—a dopey dime-store hick. So act like one. Play the dull sap and she’ll get blabby, thinking it won’t matter ’cause you’re just a dump chump waiting for the bump.
“Huh?”
Forget it.
Actually, Jack’s words—the part before dump, chump, and bump, anyway—did make sense. Burying one’s light under a bushel was the biblical phrase. It was the tactic I used during those difficult years in New York City—at the office and in my marriage: unquestioning deference to authority allowing conniving competitors and in-laws to take their worst sniping slices out of my flesh without saying a word back. That was me, all right. I told myself it was the right thing to do, the best way to evade the ugliness of confrontation, and to avoid bruising the fragile egos of my superiors, my husband, and my in-laws. I never set out to become a doormat in the process. But obviously I had.
Keep things in balance, doll, Jack said, breaking into my thoughts. Doormats don’t raise a kid solo, and they don’t take risks to save a relative’s failing business. You’re no bum taking a dive. You got the will, all right, and the heart, you just never had the means—or more like the meanness.
I wanted to reply, but Shelby Cabot was suddenly in front of me, just beyond the pane, her features pinched and pale under newly applied makeup, her short, raven hair scraped back into a tight ponytail. I opened the door and held it. She pushed past me fast, her eyes avoiding mine.
The door closed and I turned. Shelby stripped off her raincoat and draped it over a display. Under the Burberry, she wore dark tailored slacks and a cashmere sweater.
“Now Mrs. McClure,” she said. “I’m here. Whatever is this about?”
Shelby Cabot’s condescending tone made me want to shrink away under the counter, but I thought of my son and put on the mask.