Praise for the first Haunted Bookshop Mystery
The Ghost and Mrs. McClure
“A deliciously charming mystery with a haunting twist!”
—Laura Childs, author of Motif for Murder
“Part cozy and part hard-boiled detective novel with traces of the supernatural, The Ghost and Mrs. McClure is just a lot of fun.”
—The Mystery Reader
“A charming, funny, and quirky mystery starring a suppressed widow and a stimulating ghost…He is hard boiled in the tradition of Philip Marlowe and she is a genteel Miss Marple; yet the two opposites make an explosive combination. Alice Kimberly definitely has a hit series if the first book is anything to go by.”
—Midwest Book Review
“What a delightful new mystery series! I was hooked from the start…I adored the ghost of Jack…Pairing him with the disbelieving Penelope is a brilliant touch.”
—Roundtable Reviews
“Quindicott’s enigmatic townspeople come alive in this quirky mystery and readers will eagerly anticipate future installments—and the continuing easy banter and romantic tension between Jack and Penelope.”
—Romantic Times
“Ms. Kimberly has penned a unique premise and cast of characters to hook us on her first of a series.”
—Rendezvous
Haunted Bookshop Mysteries by Alice Kimberly
THE GHOST AND MRS. MCCLURE
THE GHOST AND THE DEAD DEB
THE GHOST AND THE DEAD MAN’S LIBRARY
The Ghost
AND THE
Dead Man’s Library
ALICE KIMBERLY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Sincerest thanks to Christine Zika, senior editor,
and John Talbot, literary agent,
for their “spirited” support!
Thanks also to Kimberly Lionetti
for the all-important start.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Although real places and institutions are mentioned in this book, they are used in the service of fiction. No character in this book is based on any person, living or dead, and the world presented is completely fictitious.
To Dad,
Antonio A. Alfonsi,
for being a good man in a bad world.
What you need, young woman, is a trip around the Horn with a southeaster tearing the guts out of you and all hands on deck, with the sea coming over green for three nights and three days—then you’d sleep in sacking and be thankful.
—The Ghost and Mrs. Muir by R. A. Dick
(a.k.a. Josephine Aimée Campbell Leslie)
PROLOGUE
There was a sad fellow over on a barstool talking to the bartender, who was polishing a glass and listening with that plastic smile people wear when they are trying not to scream.
—Philip Marlowe in The Long Good bye by
Raymond Chandler, 1949
New York City
October 18, 1946
BAXTER KERNS THE Third called Jack Shepard at noon and invited him to dinner at six.
Jack left his cramped office early, ducked into his flat, changed into his best double-breasted, checked the safety on his gat, and headed into the chilly concrete night. He would have taken a cab uptown, but he was close to tapsville, so for a single silver buffalo, he jumped the Third Avenue el instead then hoofed it from Forty-Second.
The Madeleine was one of those private clubs in Midtown, near the hotel with the big, round table, where that literati crew used to drink and shoot their mouths off. The place reeked of money, like all the joints on University Club Row. Stone lions at the entrance, stone-faced doorman to match.
Inside Jack found the typical masculine décor: polished wainscoting and leather armchairs; oak side tables littered with finely carved pipes, neatly folded newspapers. Overseeing it all, a row of iron-haired gentlemen, rendered in dull oils, staring dully down at their living counterparts.
Jack didn’t know what Baxter Kerns looked like, but that wasn’t a problem. In a joint that served dinner with enough extra silverware to start your own hock shop, Jack was a dead giveaway. His lace-ups may have been polished, but they’d pounded far too much pavement. And although his suit was newly pressed, it was cheap goods among cliff dwelling executives who didn’t wear second-rate gear.
As for Kerns’s glad rags, the custom-tailored Brooks Brothers’ pinstripes and new patent leathers didn’t change the fact that he was built like a street lamp, with an oblong head and a flagpole trunk. His features were well-chiseled beneath whiskey-colored hair, but his pale skin had a vaguely unhealthy undertone, which led Jack to believe the ruddy cheeks were less the result of a brisk walk in the autumn air than an indication he’d dipped his bill a few times already.
“I heard about you through Teddy Birmingham,” said Kerns, holding out a hand.
Jack shook.
The man’s skin was soft, but his grip firm. His age could have been anywhere from mid-thirties to early forties. The expression in his hazel-brown eyes appeared friendly but appraising at the same time, like a scavenging antiques agent sizing up whether a banged-up urn might prove lucrative on resale.
“I understand you helped old Ted out of a fix?”
“That’s right.”
Kerns stared, eyes candidly expectant, waiting for details.
Jack Shepard let him wait.
“Well, Mr. Shepard? I should think you’d like a drink?”
Jack nodded, followed Kerns’s loosey-goosey gait to the private club’s dining room, a stoic, dimly lit arena with a vaulted ceiling and horn-headed beasts affixed to the walls. The setup was white linen and leaded crystal, fine wine and chilled salad forks. Jack let Kerns suggest the best of the menu, order the grape juice, and drive the streetcar.
Kerns’s voice was quiet and even as he directed the conversation, like he was practiced at explaining complicated investments to society ladies. But for Jack, listening to a man with an overly smooth voice was like traveling a continuously flat landscape—it became tiresome fast.
Kerns gave his opinion on national and local politics, cultural events, and the postwar economy. He inquired about Jack’s service, quizzing him about his job in army intelligence. Asked about his work before that as a flatfoot. Jack didn’t especially enjoy talking about himself, but he gritted his teeth and answered every inquiry, knowing full well this wasn’t a social engagement but a job interview.
It never ceased to amaze him how the upper classes did business. Aristocrats, real or aspiring, flinched at anything close to giving off the base, commonplace aroma of work. Even hiring and firing staff was suspect. Consequently, they were perpetually attempting to make business look like anything but.
Eventually, however, Kerns did get down to it.
“…and, as I mentioned before, I’m a friend of Teddy Birmingham, and he recommended you, although for the life of me, I can’t see why Teddy would need a private detective.”
Jack let the repeated question-that-wasn’t-a-question hang between them in the dim light of the fossilized club.