by Cleo Coyle
(1) He didn’t think much of my “evidence.”
(2) He was seriously concerned about my stability. (No surprise, since he’d found me standing alone in the woods, talking to myself.) And . . .
(3) He was still on the same page as his boss, and that page read suicide, not homicide.
“Listen, Eddie, I admit I don’t have hard evidence of foul play. It’s all circumstantial, but you and Chief Ciders shouldn’t jump to easy conclusions.”
Eddie folded his arms. “Give me a little credit, Pen.”
“Okay. But give me a little, too.”
“I’ll keep an open mind.”
“Good. Now where does this path lead?”
Eddie put his arm on my shoulder. “Come with me.”
CHAPTER 11
Auto Focus
In one way cops are all the same. They all blame the wrong things. If a guy loses his pay check at a crap table, stop gambling. If he gets drunk, stop liquor. If he kills somebody in a car crash, stop making automobiles.
—Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye, 1953
EDDIE AND I emerged from the woods onto cracked concrete. We’d found the narrow street behind the old Victorian house. There were only two vehicles in sight, Eddie’s police car and a steel blue Ford Fusion with temporary plates.
The Ford was parked at an awkward angle, as if the driver were in a hurry, or too distracted to care about alignment.
Even if Eddie hadn’t confirmed it, I would have known the Ford belonged to Emma Hudson. Back at the bookstore, Wanda Clark had rattled off the vehicle’s make, model, color—pretty much everything except the mileage and Blue Book value. (Clearly, the minutiae of her husband’s used-car business was primary conversation in their house.)
Let’s see if Chief Blowhard is right and your pilfered potboiler is in that car.
Peering through the rain-beaded windshield, I saw an empty coffee cup from Cooper Family Bakery tucked into the holder, but there was nothing on the car’s seats or the dashboard, where Wanda said she’d spied that copy of Shades of Leather.
Just as I figured, Jack said. The book isn’t there.
But I see something else.
On the floor mat, beside several balls of used tissue, was a small spiral-bound notebook. There was handwriting on the lined white paper, but it was too far away to read.
I was dying to get my hands on it, but I couldn’t very well break into the car with a cop watching from two feet away.
Outwit him, baby.
How?
When I was still breathing air, the coppers I knew didn’t play chess. Checkers was their speed. One move at a time. Get ahead of this flunky, and you can trick him into doing the crime for you.
Trick him how?
Jack whispered his idea, and I put it into motion.
“Hey, Eddie, did you know Chief Ciders was looking for a suicide note? See in there? You might have found one.”
Eddie bent low and peered through the glass.
“Right,” he said. “I’ll open it up.”
From his police car, he fetched an odd device that looked like several irregular metal rods attached to a door hinge. “It’s an auto pick and decoder,” he told me as he tested the lock. “This tool works with most Fords, so—”
With a chirp, the car unlocked. Then Eddie donned white cotton gloves and retrieved the notebook. I looked over his shoulder as he studied the pages. I snapped a few phone photos, too.
“This is just a mileage log, Pen. Mrs. Hudson was recording her car’s miles per gallon on gas-hybrid versus pure electric battery usage. She was a stickler for saving the planet, I guess.”
“Since the car’s unlocked, would you mind looking for the book I told you about?”
Eddie checked under the front and back seats. Then he opened the trunk. He searched everywhere.
“Sorry, Pen, no suicide note and no book.”
“Then it had to be taken—the book, I mean. And there was no note because I doubt very much this was suicide.”
“My boss disagrees. But the autopsy should tell us more. Don’t worry, Pen, we’ll do this by the book.”
“If that’s true, then it’s that missing bestseller you should be looking for, Eddie, and the person who took it. At least go back into the pines and collect the torn book jacket I showed you. You might even lift a fingerprint or two, just in case this does turn out to be murder.”
“Fine, I’ll do it.”
I glanced toward the decaying Victorian house, standing beyond the neglected pine grove. “Do you know how long Emma lived at this address?”
“I’ll have to talk to the landlord, or you can ask your nosy pal Seymour Tarnish. The mailman ought to know.”
“And what about Emma’s ex-husband? Are you going to speak with him?”
“She had an ex-husband?” Eddie adjusted his hat. “You’re ahead of me on that one. But I’m sure the chief will ask me to look into it.”
“If you do, I’d like to talk to Mr. Hudson, too—”
He was about to object when I quickly added, “There are some highly valuable books inside that apartment. If Mr. Hudson stands to inherit them from his ex, I would like the chance to make him an offer for the entire collection. Aunt Sadie and I might get lucky and snag them at a steal.”
Eddie smiled and nodded. “If Mr. Hudson agrees to talk to you, I’ll give you his contact information.”
I was grateful but not surprised. Eddie was the son of a restaurateur. He understood the nature of a shop owner trying to survive.
Even in the shadow of death, we had to get on with the business of living.
CHAPTER 12
Two Visitors and a Funeral
Raising children is an uncertain thing; success is reached only after a life of battle and worry.
—Democritus, b. 460 BC–d. 370 BC
I STRODE THROUGH Buy the Book’s front door at five o’clock sharp, eager to share the details of my experience with Aunt Sadie. But it was my eleven-year-old son who rushed to greet me.
“Hey, Mom, where were you?”
“Spencer!”
Sadie swiftly pulled me aside. “I’m glad your back.” Her lips were tight, her eyebrows drawn together. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want me to do.”
“What’s wrong? Why is Spencer here? Is he all right?”
“He’s perfectly fine. Bonnie and I will take care of the customers. But you better talk to your son. He’ll tell you the story.”
“What story?”
Sadie didn’t answer. Instead, she turned and headed back to our busy selling floor, tousling Spence’s copper mop on the way. “You’re on, pal!”
I stared down my son, and his lightly freckled cheeks reddened, just like my late brother’s. The older Spencer got, the more he reminded me of Peter: his handsome features; his bright vitality; and, lately, his proclivity for getting into trouble.
“Start talking. You weren’t due back from your computer seminar for a few more days. How did you get here from Boston?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. McClure, but this is my fault.”
A girl about my son’s age, maybe a year older, stepped up to stand beside him. In contrast to Spencer’s favorite old blue jeans and sneakers, she wore her Sunday best dress along with a contrite expression. Her young face was framed by a cascade of curly brown hair. Behind her glasses, her eyes looked red, as if she’d been crying.
“I’m the one who talked Spencer into leaving—”
“You didn’t talk me into anything, Amy!” Shoving back his bangs, my son transformed his guilt into protective defiance. “I wanted to help! That’s what friends do—”
“Slow down,” I said. “Help with what?”
“Attending her father’s funeral,” an adult voice informed me.
I turned to find a familiar fa
ce—one I hadn’t seen much of lately.
Like Seymour, I’d known J. Brainert Parker since childhood. A distant relative of renowned author H. P. Lovecraft, he shared his cousin’s fondness for macabre tales, along with the author’s signature features. He had the same narrow frame, angular face, and mousy brown hair, which he tended to wear in a retro 1920s haircut—now surprisingly trendy.
On this day, however, Brainert seemed more forlorn than even Lovecraft in his most sullen, misanthropic portrait. Dark circles cradled his eyes, and his body appeared adrift in his midnight black suit. That suit had been tailored to fit, yet it now appeared a half size too large on his slender form.
Was his work taking a toll? Possibly—since he now had two occupations. Already a full professor at nearby St. Francis University, Brainert recently joined the ranks of Quindicott’s small business owners by sinking his savings into restoring our Main Street’s condemned Movie Town Theater.
Surpassed only by his passion for books, my old friend’s love of classic films (“where literature goes on the weekends”) had inspired him to find a partner and donor investors. With tireless effort, he spearheaded the transformation of the building holding our single silver screen into its original movie-palace glory. One day, he hoped to secure it landmark status.
Fulfilling his vision had cost my friend time and money, but this was the first I’d seen any effect on his health. To the contrary, Brainert’s work was typically the fuel on which his manic spirit ran.
So why the weight loss and look of weary worry?
Whatever the reason, it would have to wait until I got to the bottom of things with my son—and his little friend.
“This young lady is Amy Ridgeway,” Brainert informed me.
The girl extended her hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. McClure.”
Keen intelligence shone in the girl’s bright brown eyes, and her bearing displayed admirable maturity. I was about to begin grilling her, but as I shook her hand, I noticed several curious customers glancing our way.
“Let’s discuss this in private,” I said and pointed to the dark doorway across the main floor.
Feeling a chilly mist follow me, I silently acknowledged the one observer in this place we couldn’t possibly hide from.
Don’t get your panties in a twist, Jack cracked. You’re the only one who can hear me. So who am I gonna tell?
CHAPTER 13
Driven to the Grave
Girls . . . They can drive you crazy. They really can.
—J. D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye
INSIDE OUR SHADOWY Community Events space, I hung up my coat and flipped on the lights.
The large room felt drafty, and the ghost was no help, given his penchant for lowering temperatures. Even without his paranormal activity, it seemed a cold place to discuss family business.
You’re standing in a family business, sister. Why not discuss it here?
Stay out of this, Jack. I mean it.
I pointed to the circle of chairs set up for Monday’s Quibblers meeting, but Brainert waved me off, preferring to stand. The kids followed his lead.
“All right,” I commanded. “Start from the beginning.”
“Amy showed up at Dr. Ridgeway’s graveside ceremony,” Brainert began. “She was obviously alone, and after the service, I approached her. When I asked how she managed to get herself all the way to Quindicott from Boston, Amy pointed to your son, who was lurking among the gravestones like some romantic lead in a Gothic novel.”
I frowned at Spencer and his eyes dropped.
Once again, Amy came to his defense. “It really is my fault, Mrs. McClure. I wouldn’t want Spencer to get into trouble on my account.”
“It’s okay,” Spencer told her. “My mom has a right to feel upset.”
The maturity of my son’s statement floored me. Was it Amy’s influence? The idea unsettled me—though I couldn’t think why.
Really? Jack guffawed. I can!
I told you to stay out of this.
I’m in it, sweetheart, whether you like it or not. I’ve got a front row seat to your little family drama, and I say give the little nipper a break. Your boy wouldn’t be the first gullible guy to get tangled in a femme fatale’s web.
Oh, Jack, you don’t understand! This is about truancy, disobedience, taking unnecessary risks—and this little girl is hardly a femme fatale!
Amy spoke up. “Spencer thought it was dangerous for me to travel from Boston alone. That’s the reason he came along. Please don’t punish him because of something I did.”
Listen to Shirley Temple. Why should a guy who gave a dame some assist end up in hot water for it? It just ain’t right.
What Spencer did was risky and stupid. He should have called me first.
Why? So you could say no? In case you haven’t noticed, doll, the kid’s way out of the cradle. Five will get you ten he would have done it anyway.
Then he would have been in double trouble!
See what I mean? Jack replied. You just don’t get it.
Get what?
Your boy did the right thing. He put himself in hot water to help out a friend. Most of these corny novels you hawk would cast your kid as the hero, not the heavy.
This back-and-forth was getting me nowhere. I couldn’t argue with Jack and my son at the same time!
“Mom? Are you okay?” Spencer touched my arm.
I blinked to find my son, Amy, and Brainert all staring at me.
“You zoned out on us.”
I cleared my throat. “We’ll talk about your behavior later. Right now, I want you to take Amy upstairs. She can spend the night with us. Get her something to drink. There are cookies in the jar, but don’t eat too many. I’ll make dinner after I speak with Dr. Parker—”
“Yes!” Spencer whooped with excitement and faced the girl. “Since you’re staying with us, you can try my all-time favorite multiplayer game. And you can meet Bookmark. She’s a really cool cat. Last week she caught a mouse right here in the store!”
I cringed. This was not something I wanted my customers to know. Bonnie Franzetti, our cashier (and Eddie’s younger sister), was the sole witness to the rodenticide, and I could trust her to keep a secret. I’d have to advise Spencer to do the same!
Meanwhile, Amy’s eyes went wide. “You have a cat! What kind? My mother won’t allow pets, but I love cats, Persians and Siamese, and—”
“Ah, Bookmark is just a regular little marmalade-striped cat, but she’s a real badass—”
“Spencer! What did I tell you about using that language?”
“Sorry, Mom.”
The kid’s right. That killer kitty really is a bad—
Don’t say it! I warned.
“It’s okay, Mom, I won’t,” Spencer promised.
Did I say that out loud?
Spencer didn’t appear to care. After he and his curly-haired VIP guest raced upstairs, I faced Brainert. “I assume you know what’s behind all this?”
“Yes.” He sighed. “A bad marriage.”
With that, his energy appeared to flag. He wandered over to the circle of chairs and sat down. As I joined him, he told me that Dr. Kevin Ridgeway, his colleague and friend, had died in a traffic accident less than a week ago. This I knew because the local paper covered the accident. What I didn’t know was that a former Mrs. Ridgeway existed, along with an only child, Amy.
When Ridgeway was killed, Amy was already studying at the same computer seminar as Spencer. Unless she had adult supervision, she wasn’t permitted to leave the Boston University campus.
“Not even for her father’s funeral? That doesn’t add up.”
“It does if you factor in her mother. The woman is honeymooning in Europe with her new husband. She heard about Kevin’s death, but she told Amy to stay put, and she informed the se
minar’s administrators to keep her on campus.”
“Let me get this straight. Amy’s mother didn’t want her attending her own father’s funeral?”
Brainert shrugged. “Some people don’t want their children exposed to death—the reality of it, even the idea of it.”
“Clearly, Amy felt differently.”
“That’s correct. Spencer told me she was determined to be with her father as he went to his final resting place. When your son heard that, he said there was no way he was going to let his friend go alone.”
I considered my son’s own loss of his father and realized what he must have felt when he saw Amy’s devastation at losing hers. I was beginning to feel a little more forgiving of Spencer’s motivation.
“Apparently, they slipped away from their dorm and off campus early this morning, hours before their first class.”
“How in the world did they get here from Boston?”
“Amy hacked her mother’s Uber account and hired a car. They arrived too late for the eulogy at the funeral home, so the two proceeded directly to Quindicott Cemetery. That’s where I saw them.”
“And how did they plan on getting back from the cemetery? Another outrageously expensive car hack?”
“Spencer said if the hack didn’t work again, he’d just call the police and, I quote: ‘turn myself in, even if it means going up the river.’” Brainert shook his head. “Where did he learn such vernacular?”
I shrugged. “Shield of Justice reruns on the Intrigue Channel, along with Dragnet and The Untouchables.”
Hey, don’t forget Naked City!
Jack, your enthusiasm surprises me. Didn’t you call those old crime shows overblown and unrealistic?
Sure, I did. No gumshoe worth his salt would do half the crazy things those lamebrain actors do. But as entertainment, it ain’t so bad.
“Poor little Amy,” Brainert said. “Kevin was a fine teacher. And a good father—from what she told me after the funeral. What happened on that highway was a senseless tragedy.”
“What did happen? Did he skid and hit a tree? That road is notorious after the rain.”