The Ghost and the Dead Deb hb-2

by Alice Kimberly

  I recognized the name immediately, and nearly gasped. Bud noted my reaction. Sadie looked at me, then at Bud. She hadn’t made the connection.

  “Now you know why I told Johnny to use my name,” said Bud. “Too many people could find him if he used his own.”

  “I don’t think I understand,” my aunt declared.

  Me, either, doll. Enlighten us both.

  I rose and walked to the New Releases table at the front of the store. I came back with a copy of Angel Stark’s All My Pretty Friends and handed it to my aunt. “Index,” I whispered.

  “Rita died when Johnny was six or seven,” Bud continued. “I didn’t have much to do with his family after that—I frankly didn’t care for Johnny’s old man—but I heard his grandmother worked hard to raise my nephew right. She made sure he hit the books, and after school she taught him how to cook.

  “The grandmother died when Johnny was just starting high school . . . I remember going up to Providence for the funeral. After that, I didn’t see much of him until his father died of a heart attack. I found out at the funeral that Johnny was accepted by the Culinary Institute of Rhode Island. Later I found out that when his old man died, the money for Johnny’s schooling dried up and he couldn’t go.

  “But a catering company hired him full-time to work the high-society parties in the area. . . . From what I understand, things were going fine until my nephew hooked up with those rich society types—then everything went to hell.”

  “Oh, goodness,” said Aunt Sadie, studying the pages of Angel’s tome. “He’s in this book!”

  Bud Napp nodded. “Johnny was the one who the police arrested for the murder of Bethany Banks last year . . . but he was innocent. Probably set up by those rich folks to take the fall, but their plan backfired.”

  Stop the presses, Jack declared.

  I silently asked my personal ghost to keep his pucker buttoned while I tried to conjure the memory of the Banks murder coverage on the news, and the arrest that followed. But the only image I could recall was the figure of a young man surrounded by policemen, a jacket pulled up to hide his features.

  It’s called a “perp walk,” doll, said Jack. The hammers thought they had their patsy.

  “I remember the name ‘Napoli’ was in the papers and on television,” I told Bud, “but of course I never connected the name to you—or to Johnny. And I don’t think I ever saw Johnny’s picture at the time.”

  “No,” said Bud, “you wouldn’t have. Johnny was still seventeen when he was arrested, and technically a juvenile, so the press never published his photo—thank God.”

  “So what finally happened?” I asked as gently as possible. “You said Johnny was on parole. But wasn’t he cleared of the Banks murder?”

  “Not cleared,” Bud replied. “He was released on a technicality—an illegal search and seizure of his locker and car by the local police, who also violated his Miranda rights. They kept him up all night trying to get a confession out of him. He gave them some statements that were somewhat incriminating, but he’d never been apprised of his rights and no lawyer was present, so those were thrown out, too. No other physical evidence could make their case against Johnny—because he was innocent, so that’s no surprise. But the Rhode Island State Police are livid that the local badges didn’t call them in to handle it. I know the Staties think Johnny is their killer, and that they could have convicted based on circumstantial evidence and legally extracted statements. They did go out of their way to nail him on a lesser charge of possession of a controlled substance with intent to sell—that ecstasy stuff.”

  “Oh, my,” murmured Sadie.

  “Johnny was convicted of that drug charge, but because he was a juvenile and it was a first offense he only got six months in jail before he was paroled for good behavior—though any violation of that parole will get Johnny sent back to jail for five years.”

  “I can see why you don’t want to involve the police,” I said.

  “Johnny was no saint,” Bud replied. “He’s had a lot of hard knocks and he didn’t take them all well. When his education got sidetracked, he got mixed up with a bad crowd. He got hooked on booze and drugs. But since his arrest and conviction, he’s cleaned up his act and deserves a second chance—which is why I don’t want to go to Chief Ciders. Not yet, anyway.”

  It’s an old story, baby. The well-heeled set have the local cops in their pocket. With an obvious suspect like Johnny right in front of them, it’s no surprise they’d pushed so hard for a confession.

  “Do you need me to explain Miranda rights to you, Jack? They were before your time.”

  Don’t sweat it, honey. I’ve picked it up from some of those TV cop shows me and your boy like to watch. Seems to me even the screwed-up handling of Johnny’s rights serves the locals well—it keeps the victim’s family believing Johnny did the deed and got off on a legal technicality. Which means the local badges don’t have to risk angering a community of wealthy families by digging into and exposing their kids’ peccadillos to find the real killer.

  Though I dreaded this moment, I knew it was time to tell Bud what really happened to Johnny last night—that he’d hooked up with Angel Stark, and may have left with her after the author appearance and the ugly scene on the street.

  “Damn!” Bud yelled when I delivered the bad news. “Johnny should have been smart enough to stay away!”

  Just then there came a persistent knocking at the front door. My aunt hurried to answer it, leaving me with the task of calming Bud.

  “How could you invite that woman to your store? How could you set up Johnny like that?”

  “Bud,” I said evenly. “I didn’t know—you and Johnny were hiding the truth. There’s no way I could have known.”

  Bud slumped down in his chair, the wind out of him, his demeanor sunken with defeat. “I’m sorry . . . I don’t really blame you, Pen. It’s just that I don’t know what to do or where to turn. But it sounds to me like Johnny skipped his parole and ran off with the Stark girl.”

  I heard a sharp intake of breath behind me, then sobs. I whirled around to see Mina in tears. Obviously she’d heard Bud’s last statement, which did nothing to improve the poor girl’s day.

  CHAPTER 9

  And Then There Were Three

  The revelation that life simply isn’t easy . . . is one of the most distressing aspects of the quarterlife crisis.

  —Quarterlife Crisis: The Unique Challenges of Life in Your Twenties

  AFTER MORE TEARS and my aunt’s comforting attentions, Mina wiped her face, brushed her hair, and declared herself fit to face the workday. Bud Napp departed soon after that, already late in opening his hardware store.

  “We’ll talk again tonight, at the meeting,” Bud told me at the front door. He was referring to the monthly meeting of the Quindicott Business Owners Association, scheduled to assemble in our store’s Community Events space tonight, right after closing.

  “We might actually be laughing about this situation by then,” I said hopefully. “When you find Johnny at the store selling pipe stems, and Angel turns up sipping coffee at the Cooper Family Bakery.”

  Bud smiled weakly, but I could see he didn’t share my optimism. With a final wave, he hurried into the bright, blue summer morning. My son soon followed as his ride to day camp pulled up. With a kiss, he was out the door, trilling how he was all ready for his next swimming lesson.

  Despite the fact that it was a Saturday and the weather outside was lovely, warm and sunny, yet comfortably breezy—the reason the moneyed classes of New York and Philadelphia have made New England summers by the sea a tradition for over a century—Sadie, Mina, and I were already emotionally drained by the time we opened Buy the Book, which meant we were totally unprepared to greet the public. Fortunately, there wasn’t much of a public to greet, just two women in their twenties looking for beach reading.

  After selling them Janet Evanovich’s entire Stephanie Plum backlist, I sought forgetfulness in other work. I booted up t
he computer to check the inventory, answer some e-mail queries, review publishers’ catalogs, and made a note to order more James Patterson and Dan Brown books, dusted the counter, and assembled the display for the new Dennis Lehane hardcover—and after all of it, I still felt restless. Or perhaps helpless is a better word.

  Doll, one thing you’re not is helpless.

  “Easy for you to say,” I silently told my ghost. “What would you do if you were me?”

  When waiting for the next shoe to drop, take a closer look at the shoe you’ve got . . . aw, hell . . . did I just make a rhyme? I hate rhymes more than nickel cigar smoke . . .

  “The shoe I’ve got? . . . Yes, of course!”

  I dialed quickly, and the call was answered on the first ring, as I knew it would be. “Professor Parker,” I said, “I have urgent need for your literary expertise.”

  “Indeed,” was Brainert’s reply, and I could almost see that inscrutable, Holmes-like eyebrow of his arch.

  “Did you happen to read Angel Stark’s book?”

  There was a pause. “Last night, I had two choices: read Ms. Stark’s tome, or grade the papers from my summer school class. Now the only students more dismal than the usual bunch are those so pathetic they have to repeat classes during the summer . . .”

  “So you read Angel’s book.”

  “Actually, no. In my opinion, my summer school students are better writers.”

  “Come on, Brainert. It can’t be that bad.”

  “Why don’t you call Fiona. She swore she was going to devour the thing when I delivered the autographed copy to her last night. And knowing Fiona, she’s probably already read the entire book twice and posted her copy for sale on eBay.”

  “I might just visit Fiona, now that you mention it,” I replied. “But I still need you to read Angel’s book before the meeting tonight.”

  Brainert moaned.

  So I told Brainert about Johnny vanishing, about Angel’s disappearance, and the fact that Johnny Napp was really Giovanni Napoli—a material witness and possible suspect in the Bethany Banks murder. I could tell his interest was sparked, but not stoked enough to fuel his intellectual fire, or delve into “Miss Prozac-Girl-Interrupted-in-a-Bell-Jar’s” book.

  “If I do read this thing, what, exactly, do you want me to look for?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied honestly. “Connections.”

  Brainert agreed to do it, but still sounded skeptical about the whole project.

  “Look,” I said. “The only two things Angel Stark and Bud’s nephew have in common are Bethany Banks’s murder—and the fact that they both vanished on the same night. You have in your hand a just-released copy of a book written by Angel Stark about that very murder. Surely it’s possible that you’ll discover some pertinent fact if you read it. You are a genius, remember?”

  “So I am.”

  “And please, keep everything I told you a secret for now, though I suspect the cat will be out of the bag before much longer. I’ll see you tonight at the Quibblers’ meeting.” (Among some of its members, the Quindicott Business Owners Association has come to be referred to as the Quibble Over Anything gang—or “the Quibblers” for short.)

  After I turned Brainert loose on the problem, I felt a little better. But I still didn’t feel I’d done enough.

  So listen to your bookworm friend, Jack said. Pay the Bird Lady a visit, and when you get back you can let me in on what kind of pecker she’s wearing on her lapel today.

  Though offensively put, Jack’s—more specifically, Brainert’s—advice to pay Fiona a visit had merit. No scandal large or small, no bit of gossip or innuendo in this town, could slip past the predatory eyes and extremely sharp hearing of Fiona Finch, let alone under her own roof. So I was fairly sure that if something fishy was going on, Fiona had probably already swooped in on it.

  Enough. Your bird metaphors are killing me.

  “Oh, really, and I thought you were already dead.”

  Can it, kid. Go get yourself some oxygen.

  I cleared my throat and called to Sadie, “Hold the fort. I’m going over to Fiona’s inn for an hour or so.”

  Aunt Sadie surprised me by stepping out from behind the counter.

  “You’re thinking of breaking into Angel Stark’s room, aren’t you?” she said. My silence was answer enough.

  Sadie looked over her shoulder to make sure Mina was out of earshot. Then she faced me again. “You are thinking of breaking in,” she whispered.

  “It’s hardly breaking in if you convince the innkeeper to use a pass key. Anyway, it’s Fiona’s property. She can come and go as she pleases.”

  “And bring you with her? Well, dear, you’re not going without me.”

  Sadie scampered to retrieve her purse.

  “We can’t just leave Mina here without help,” I protested.

  “The place is empty,” Sadie replied. “And besides, we’re doing this to help Mina, too.”

  “We’re doing this?”

  “You solved a murder at this store last year, Pen,” my aunt replied. “And you never even let me in on what was going on—did you think I was too old to help?”

  “I never said anything of the kind!” I cried. “I was just trying to protect you.”

  “I don’t need protection!”

  Then Sadie sighed and looked at me over the tops of her wire-rimmed glasses. “Sorry, dear . . . I don’t mean to snap . . . it’s just that things were getting pretty dull around here until you and Spencer came back into my life. I didn’t realize it right off . . . but I kinda like all the excitement.”

  “It’s okay, Aunt Sadie. I understand. But I honestly hope things don’t get too exciting—and by the time we reach Fiona’s inn, we find Johnny and Angel are back.”

  I called to Mina, who was restocking the stacks at the rear of the store. “Mina, we need you up front. Sadie and I have to go out for an hour or so.”

  WHEN WE STEPPED into the bright sunshine, I spied one of the three Quindicott Police squad cars parked on the other side of Cranberry Street. Standing next to the vehicle, looking tall and more handsome than usual in his dark blue uniform and mirrored sunglasses, was Officer Edward Franzetti.

  “What do you know? Sometimes there is a cop around when you need one,” I said.

  Aunt Sadie touched my arm. “Bud specifically asked us not to contact the police—not yet, anyway. It’s not our place to interfere.”

  “I’m not going to contact the police . . . not officially. I’m just going to have a talk with my old friend Eddie. And if something about a missing person gets mentioned . . .”

  My voice trailed off. Inside my head, I could hear Jack’s voice, but faintly. When I let go of the door I felt him fade away completely—his spirit imprisoned inside of the brick and mortar building that housed our bookstore.

  I caught Eddie’s attention and waved. As I hoped he would, Eddie sauntered across the street, fingers hitched in his holster belt.

  Eddie Franzetti was a longtime friend of mine, and the very best friend of my late brother Peter—who’d died drag-racing in high school. One of the sons of the man who opened Franzetti’s Pizza some time in the early 1960s, Eddie decided he wanted more than a spot in the family business. So he did a tour in the military, then returned to Quindicott and joined the police force, which my late father, who’d also been part of that force, had helped him do.

  “Hey, Pen. Sadie,” he said, touching the brim of his cap.

  “How are you, Eddie?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Working Saturday in the middle of the summer, when I should be sunning myself on the Ponsert Beach, that’s how I am. It’s not like the old days, when we were young and the living was easy, eh, Pen?”

  “When we were young, we didn’t have children to support,” I replied.

  “I’ll say. Found out my oldest kid needs braces. What passes for my dental plan will pay for less than half the procedure, so I’ll be working Saturdays for the rest of the summer . . . Mayb
e the rest of the year.”

  Sadie began window-shopping, tactfully moving down the street until she was out of earshot.

  “Can I ask you something, Eddie . . . off the record?”

  “Not if it’s about the littering ticket. I’m sorry about the fine, Pen, but you weren’t the only business that got hit. Lots of folks along Cranberry did . . . It wasn’t my idea. I was just following orders.”

  I knew Eddie and his fellow “Brothers in Blue” were feeling the heat as the result of new revenue-enhancing policies instituted by Councilwoman Marjorie Binder-Smith, the most frustrating woman in local politics. Sadie and Marjorie had been feuding since before I was born, it seemed, and it was my aunt who dubbed her “The Municipal Zoning Witch.” The councilwoman’s newest shakedown had most of the town’s business leaders buzzing, and not in a nice way. The strategy involved an insidious manipulation of perfectly reasonable trash laws.

  “It’s not about the ticket, which I paid in full,” I replied. “Actually, it’s about a missing person, who, technically, may not be a missing person—at least not officially.”

  Eddie reached under his cap and scratched his head. Then he put his hands on his hips. “Are you talking about the young woman who disappeared last night?” he asked.

  Could it be that Dana Wu actually filed a missing report after all? I wondered. Only one way to find out.

  “Do you mean Angel Stark?” I asked.

  To my surprise, Eddie shook his head. “Never heard of anyone called Angel Stark. Our missing person is a woman, though . . . college kid who came to town for the weekend.”

  It was my turn to scratch my head. “I don’t know who you mean.”

  “She’s a Brown University student, over from Providence,” Eddie continued. “She and her friends were staying at the new Comfy-Time Motel on the highway last night. Sometime after midnight—the roommates are not sure of the exact time—they claim the girl stepped outside to get a soda and never came back. Her car is still in the parking lot. Her purse with her ID and credit cards was still in the motel room. She was reported missing to us first thing in the morning.”