“Mom!” cried Spencer, rushing up to me for a hug. I knelt down and pulled him in. When he broke free, he said, “Aunt Ashley wanted me to call you and tell you that I wanted to stay the night, but I didn’t.”
“Oh, really? Why not?”
“I told her I had to get home for your big night, and if her driver didn’t take me, I was calling you to send me a cab. Boy, that really steamed her up!”
I licked my thumb and smoothed away a smudge of something, probably a French sauce, from Spence’s cheek. “But did you have fun?” I asked.
Spencer shrugged. “For a while . . . then Aunt Ashley started bugging me about living in New York City with her again, going back to my old school.”
So my sister-in-law was still at it, I thought. Well, I shouldn’t have been surprised. When “the princessa” and her mother wanted something, they were used to getting it.
“And what did you tell Aunt Ashley?”
“I told her nix to that! There’s no way I’m going back to New York. I like my new teacher. And I’m having too much fun selling books.”
Nix to that? I thought.
“I mean, come on,” said Spence, “how would I finish reading all the rest of the books in this store if I wasn’t living here? And besides . . .”
“Yes?”
“You’re here. And I’d never leave you, Mom.”
I smiled. Round One to the defending champ of motherhood. But I knew the boxing wasn’t over. As Spencer got older, Ashley would find new, more intriguing temptations to lure my son out of my sphere.
Well, I was ready for her now. Since I’d met Jack, I was learning how to fight in whole new ways.
“Pen,” Sadie called, “the Shield of Justice display is empty again.”
“Fear not, Mother! Spenser for Hire is here!” Then my boy was off, racing toward the stockroom with all the vigor of summer green.
I rose, dusted off my nude stockings and black skirt, and wound my way through the crowd to get to the main store counter. I touched the shoulder of our new part-time employee—a freshman from St. Francis College, the school where Brainert taught.
“How’s it going, Mina?” I asked.
“Great, Mrs. McClure!” She smiled through braces as she bagged a customer’s purchase. “This is so cool! I didn’t know working in a bookstore could be so . . . exciting.”
Freckles doesn’t glam the half of it, said Jack.
I ran my hands through my copper curls. I’d used an iron to add some bounce, put contacts in for the night, and makeup, too—Linda even helped me find a shade of peach lip gloss to match my new silk blouse. Still, I was truly surprised to see men turn their heads as I walked by.
Don’t be, sweetheart. Didn’t I say you were whistle bait?
I walked back to the events room, where the crowd—sans Jack Shield costumes, thank you very much!—had become restless. My old friend Brainert waved me to the reserved empty chair next to him in the front row.
I wasn’t sitting a minute when the room exploded with applause as they greeted Kenneth Franken, who entered with Deirdre by his side. The author and his wife walked together to the podium, then Deirdre took the reserved seat next to me in the front row. Fiona Finch, Bud Napp, and the Logans were seated right behind us.
George Young, the store’s longtime Salient House sales representative, back from his cruise, introduced Kenneth Franken as the ghostwriter for the last three Jack Shield novels—and the author of record on Shield of Fate, a new Jack Shield novel due to hit stores next fall.
During a second round of cheers, Deirdre took my hand and squeezed. She and Kenneth hadn’t stopped expressing their undying gratitude to me since Shelby Cabot was arrested. . . .
THE DAY AFTER I’d provoked Shelby into a confession, the Frankens had insisted on taking me out to Newport for an extravagant dinner to celebrate Deirdre’s release. We’d become fast friends ever since.
According to the Frankens, Shelby had been a college student of Kenneth’s back in the days when he’d been a teacher. She’d always had a terrible crush on him, even made aggressive passes during that period. But Kenneth had rebuffed her.
Years later, they met again, through Shelby’s work for Salient House and Kenneth’s work for Timothy Brennan. In Kenneth’s words, he felt demoralized by his father-in-law’s treatment, so he’d been stupidly vulnerable to Shelby’s advances. He slept with Shelby for about four weeks and then, as he put it at our dinner that night, “I came to my senses.”
He said he realized that he loved his wife “deeply and utterly.” As he put it, “I realized I was throwing away something lasting for something ephemeral.”
But Shelby didn’t see it that way.
She began to plead with him, stalk him, and even threaten him. Kenneth thought ignoring her was the best way to handle it. And by the time the six-week promotional tour came up for Shield of Justice, Kenneth honestly thought Shelby was over him. Instead, Shelby had hatched a plan she thought would get her everything she wanted—Kenneth, riches, prestige, professional acclaim.
“Things didn’t exactly work out the way she planned,” I noted that night at our Newport dinner.
“No,” said Deirdre. “Now she’s facing the murder charge I was facing.”
“If there’s anything I can ever do for you, Mrs. McClure,” said Kenneth, “you let me know.”
“Let us know,” said Deirdre.
AS THE APPLAUSE died, Deirdre released my hand, and I gave her a nod and a smile. She nodded back at me, then gazed up at her husband, who returned her gaze with what looked to me like abiding love.
I’d never seen anyone look at me that way, not even my late husband. And I couldn’t help wondering about Shelby Cabot—the pain she must have felt in seeing the object of her adoration giving his love to someone else. It must have been like looking into the abyss, I thought.
Don’t get existential on me, sweet cheeks. The abyss ain’t so bad.
“Why, Jack,” I whispered in my thoughts, “I didn’t know you knew the meaning of the word ‘existential.’ ”
Don’t crack wise with me, doll, I can scare this room into next week.
“Rule number one: Don’t haunt the customers.”
Nix to your rules. And anyway, what’s the scoop on Peanut Girl these days?
“The last I’d read of her, she’d hired a high-priced New York City criminal defense attorney. And according to Gossip magazine, the attorney is planning a lovesick twist on the infamous “Twinkie defense” that got off Harvey Milk’s killer—”
Back up, babe. What’s a Twinkie? And who the hell’s Harvey Milk?
“I’ll tell you later. Just trust me that it’s a stretch. The attorney wants to argue that Shelby couldn’t help killing Brennan because she’d been driven temporarily insane by loss of love.”
You buy that?
“Which part?”
The defense’s strategy.
“I don’t know. Sounds like a cheap rumor to me. Then again, I’ve certainly heard of stranger things under the sun. Namely you.”
Gee, thanks.
“But the bottom line is, although juries in this country sometimes do deliberate irrationally—they seldom do it in the commonsense state of Rhode Island. So, frankly, I’m glad I’m not in her shoes.”