by Cleo Coyle
Though I would have preferred my son and his friend making better use of their time than playing a game for hours on end, they were having so much fun together that I hated to interrupt.
If the ghost were here now, I know what he’d say: everyone deserves vacation time. In my estimation, that would include Jack Shepard. He often disappeared after we shared a dream. Creating it appeared to drain his energies.
I’d like to think he was hitting a cosmic speakeasy for some “spirit strength,” too.
Suddenly, Amy screamed. I peeked into the living room just as Spencer was shaking his head.
“I warned you not to use all your spirit strength,” he said. “Now the gangsters know you’re alive, and they’re going to come for you, big-time.”
As the kids laughed together, I returned my attention to breakfast. Checking the covered pot on the stove, I found the oatmeal that Sadie had saved for me.
With a sigh, I dished out the single portion and sat down at the table, alone.
* * *
* * *
A SHORT TIME later, Sunday service was over and I stepped out of the church to find a brisk but sunny morning. While Bud Napp drove Sadie home, the kids and I walked back via Cranberry Street.
“Fresh air will do you good,” I told the kids, and they didn’t argue, especially since I promised we’d stop by Cooper Family Bakery.
As we strolled across the wide, grassy commons, my mobile phone vibrated. Once again, I hoped it was Amy’s mother returning my call. But it was Eddie Franzetti on the line.
“I have the contact information I promised you for Emma Hudson’s ex-husband. The man came into the station on his own about an hour ago.”
“How did your interview go?”
“Mr. Hudson was friendly enough, as the Newport set goes.”
“Wait. Philip Hudson is one of the Newport Hudsons?”
“I thought you knew.”
“I should have, considering the quality of that book collection.”
“Which I brought up right after I discussed the circumstances surrounding his ex-wife’s death. I told Mr. Hudson that your shop was interested in acquiring the collection of books in his ex-wife’s apartment, and he said he’s willing to take your call—”
“Great.”
“But in my opinion, you might want to hold off on contacting him for a few days.”
“Because?”
“He seemed pretty broken up, Pen, and he’s going to be busy making arrangements for Mrs. Hudson’s funeral.”
“Emma has no other family? Didn’t she and Mr. Hudson have children?”
“Uh, that would be a definite no,” Eddie replied in an odd, almost ironic way.
“Are you trying to tell me something?”
“No, nothing, Pen. It’s not my business to judge.”
Confused by that statement, I tried a more pointed question. “Does Mr. Hudson have an alibi?”
“Why would he need an alibi for an apparent suicide?”
“Because it’s not so apparent to me.”
That’s when Eddie told me where Philip Hudson was at the time of his ex-wife’s death—New York City. “He said he drove back late last night, Pen, arriving in Millstone long after Emma’s body was found.”
I asked who could verify that statement, but Eddie was done answering my questions. He suggested I get the rest of the news from the Sunday paper.
I thought he was being cute, so after I scribbled down Mr. Hudson’s contact info, I thanked him and ended the call—just in time to buy Amy Ridgeway her first taste of Quindicott’s famous Cooper Family doughnuts.
CHAPTER 20
All the News That Fits We Print
Journalism consists largely in saying “Lord James is dead” to people who never knew Lord James was alive.
—G. K. Chesterton
BACK HOME, I settled the kids upstairs and swapped my church clothes for comfortable slacks and a sweater.
We opened late on Sunday, and it was nearly that time, but I still needed a few minutes of privacy with Sadie to update her on the Emma Hudson saga. Unfortunately, when I arrived downstairs in our sunny shop, she already had company—
“That crazy old woman could have been a star on Hoarders,” Vinny Nardini proclaimed.
I’d known Vinny since junior high. In his brown Dependable Delivery Service uniform, the big man with his bark-colored beard reminded me of an Ent, those walking trees in Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. The comparison was fitting since he carried nearly every book shipped to us from all the major publishers. With deliveries seven days a week, that added up to a lot of trees moving around in their literary afterlife.
“Hi-yoooo, Penelope!” Big Vinny’s megaphone voice filled the shop. “This young lady and I were discussing the latest local scuttlebutt—”
Vinny always referred to Sadie as “young lady,” even though she was twice his age. (Sadie never minded.)
“What do you think, Pen?”
“About what?”
“That hoarder on the other side of town,” Sadie replied.
“Hoarder?”
“Died in a horrible accident,” Vinny said solemnly.
My aunt displayed the front page of today’s Quindicott Bulletin.
HOARDER DIES IN FATAL BUILDING MISHAP
Vinny’s finger tapped the headline. “Teddy Brenner at the drugstore thinks the old building was compromised by the weight of all that junk the woman collected.”
Sadie nodded. “In his editorial, Elmer Crabtree called on the city council to hire more building inspectors.” She closed the newspaper. “The poor woman was probably squirreling away old trash and magazines, knickknacks, broken appliances, and goodness knows what else.”
“Hiring new inspectors is a solid idea,” Vinny said. “My friend Joe Walker, a volunteer firefighter, says lots of buildings on that road are one camel-back straw away from collapse.”
I scratched my head. “I know what ‘collapse’ means, but what exactly is a ‘building mishap’?”
“The article was vague, but it sounds like the hoarder fell when her balcony gave way under the weight of her junk.”
“Whoa, hold on, Vinny. You said the victim fell off a balcony? What’s the name of this hoarder?”
“Withheld by the Quindicott Police Department,” Sadie said.
“When and where did this ‘mishap’ occur?”
“Yesterday afternoon on the west side,” Vinny said. “That big, rundown Victorian on Pine Tree—”
“Pine Tree Avenue?” I cried.
“That’s right.”
“Let me see that!”
Sadie handed me the paper. I scanned the article and clutched my head.
“Only in the fevered imagination of Elmer Crabtree does owning a valuable collection of rare first editions constitute hoarding! And who is this anonymous source Elmer keeps quoting?”
Vinny shrugged. “They’re anonymous.”
“As usual!”
Half the town knew Elmer’s “anonymous sources” came from messages left on his answering machine. Either that or City Councilwoman Marjorie Binder-Smith, especially when the subject of the article involved a pet project she was pushing or a scheme to tax local businesses, usually both. And as usual—
“Elmer didn’t get one single fact straight!”
I really shouldn’t have been surprised. Elmer Crabtree, the eighty-something editor in chief of the Quindicott Bulletin, was not known for his high journalistic standards.
Elmer wasn’t even a journalist by profession. He was an entrepreneur who created the paper to supplement his coupon-printing business. The way he figured it, he could peddle ad space to the same local merchants for whom he printed coupons and circulars. Of course, that meant he had to sell the paper. So, every few days, Elmer would publish a
sensational story more in the tradition of the National Enquirer than the Boston Globe.
Vinny rubbed his beard. “So what really happened, Pen? It sure sounds like you know something Elmer doesn’t.”
I knew Vinny wanted me to dish. The smaller the town, the less that went on, and the more folks gossiped about what did. But I was unwilling to feed that mill any further. Declaring the store was about to open, I focused on our delivery instead.
Stacked on his dolly were four boxes of books for the Leeds signing. A fifth box replenished our supply of Shades of Leather—now in its eighth printing. Four more boxes held a variety of steady selling backlist books.
After Vinny said good-bye, Sadie and I finally had some privacy, and I told her what I knew about Emma Hudson, the tragedy of her death, and the treasure trove of first editions in her possession. I finished by proposing my idea.
“If I can get her ex-husband to have dinner with me, would you come along?”
“Sure. I’ll bring Bud, too. That should make Mr. Hudson more comfortable—having another older gentleman at the table. It will feel more sociable, as well.”
“Good idea.”
“Emma’s death is a terrible tragedy, I must admit.”
“Eddie thinks we should wait to contact Philip Hudson. He said the man was pretty broken up, and he may not be ready to speak with us.”
“That’s up to Mr. Hudson, Pen, don’t you think?”
“I suppose.”
She gave me a wise smile. “You know I’m no stranger to estate sales. I admit death is a delicate subject, and one must be respectful, but life goes on—and in this business, the early bookworm gets the book.”
“You’re right. That collection is valuable. We shouldn’t wait.”
“From your description, we’d have to take out a second mortgage to buy it outright.”
“How about a consignment deal?”
Sadie nodded. “That would be best for us. Do you think he’d go for it?”
“I can certainly try to charm him into it.”
The word charm brought back an unsettling image—that smarmy Henri Leroi, the duplicitous ex-husband from Jack’s past.
I did plan to question Mr. Hudson about the death of his ex-wife. But I honestly didn’t suspect him of being anything like that crazy character in Jack’s dream. At this point, I found it hard to suspect him of foul play, either.
After all, Eddie said Mr. Hudson was in New York at the time. And he mentioned how upset the man was over the news of his ex’s death. The poor old guy.
Well, like Sadie said, it was up to him to decline our invitation to dinner. So, while Sadie opened the store to waiting customers, I went to our back office and called Mr. Philip Gordon Hudson of the Newport, Rhode Island, Hudsons.
He answered on the first ring.
I was ready with a string of apologies for bothering a grieving man, but there was no need. His enthusiastic response disarmed me.
“Mrs. McClure! Deputy Chief Franzetti said you might call. I’m so glad you did.”
His voice sounded cultured and warm—and surprisingly upbeat. Still, I felt bad about calling so soon. “I’m sorry to trouble you at this painful and difficult time—”
“Never mind that. I understand you’re interested in acquiring my late father’s book collection?”
“Yes, but I thought—”
“You thought it belonged to Emma? Technically it was Emma’s, but the collection was gathered by my father . . . I’m afraid it’s all quite complicated.”
“If the situation is in limbo, we can speak another time.”
“No time like the present! But I prefer to meet face-to-face.”
“How about dinner?”
“Perfect. Are you free tonight? Say eight o’clock? My friends tell me there’s a delightful restaurant in your town.”
“Yes, Chez Finch.”
“Then I’ll make reservations for us.”
“My aunt and co-owner, Sadie Thornton, would also be involved in any purchase.”
“Bring her, then. The more the merrier! And feel free to invite your significant other.”
Oh, I’ll be there, buddy. Make book on it!
It was Jack, speaking up for the first time since I crawled out of bed this morning. I couldn’t stop my smile. Hello, Jack.
Good morning, sweetheart. Miss me?
“I won’t have an escort for dinner,” I informed Mr. Hudson, “but I’ll be accompanied by Ms. Thornton and her friend, Mr. Budd Napp, a local businessman.”
“Delightful. Eight o’clock. And dinner is on me.” Without a good-bye, Philip Hudson ended the call.
I exhaled. “That was easy.”
Too easy, Jack said. And I didn’t hear any “Hearts and Flowers” playing. He wasn’t even acting the grieving widower, never mind actually grieving.
“Well, they were ex-spouses. I suspect he’s gotten over the pain of their breakup.”
So, you’re assuming their divorce was a civilized affair with a shake of a hand and a fond farewell? Not in my experience.
“Your experience was as a PI. Your files are filled with jobs catching Cheating Charlies.”
Don’t forget the Bamboozling Bettys!
“According to Eddie, Hudson has an alibi for the time of his ex-wife’s death. And why would he want to murder her, anyway? The woman was already out of his life.”
Your husband’s dead and buried. Is he out of your life?
“Point taken. But last night, you talked about motive and opportunity. Eddie would argue that Mr. Hudson didn’t have opportunity. He was in New York. And what about motive?”
That would depend on the divorce settlement. If the ex–Mrs. Hudson ended up with a few pricey books, and Mr. Hudson is already rollin’ in lettuce, there’d be no reason to push the button on her. But if she walked away with the deed to Mr. Hudson’s farm, it’s a whole different ball game.
“Mr. Hudson did say the situation was complicated.”
Then you’re going to have to un-complicate it by prying all the juicy details out of the old-timer.
“Easier said than done. The last thing he may want to do is talk about his dead ex-wife. How do I get him to open up?”
Turn on the charm. Remember, he’s a lonely old geezer with money. You’re young, carefree, and quite the looker. So give him something to look at.
CHAPTER 21
Chez Mate
She was lovely, this woman. Tonight she had dressed up for me . . .
—Mickey Spillane, My Gun Is Quick
THE EVENING STARTED predictably enough. Bonnie agreed to extend her hours into some evening babysitting. She was now ensconced in the living room with Spencer, Amy, a fresh bowl of popcorn, and the Avenging Angel game.
Bud Napp showed up a few minutes later. A lean, energetic man just touching seventy, Bud looked dapper in an off-the-rack pin-striped suit, silk tie—and “Napp Hardware” ball cap.
“You’re taking that off right now!” Sadie insisted as she fussed in front of the mirror with the bow on her silk blouse, beneath her best embroidered sweater.
With a shake of his head, Bud removed the crimson cap and helped Sadie with her coat. “We’d better get cracking. It’s nearly eight.”
To Budd’s chagrin, I had to run upstairs one last time.
When I’d changed for the evening, including fresh underthings, I’d left something important behind.
You can say that again!
Sorry, Jack . . .
I found the tiny silk purse on my dresser and pinned it carefully next to my heart. Inside the soft pocket was an old United States Mint–issued Buffalo nickel. Some time ago, it had fallen out of the files downstairs—Jack Shepard’s files.
When I’d first found the nickel, I’d kept it for luck, and quickly discovered Jack’s pa
st contact with it allowed the coin to work as some kind of transmitter. After decades of imprisonment within the fieldstone walls of our shop—the location, as he put it, of his “lead poisoning”—Jack was finally able to travel, as long as I remembered to take his lucky nickel along!
I’m with you, sweetheart. Let’s hit the road.
* * *
* * *
WE DID HIT it, with Bud at the wheel, and not in his hardware store’s battered old van, either. Tonight, Sadie and I were being squired in the man’s big, shiny Chrysler sedan.
We traveled down Cranberry Street, past the commons and toward Quindicott Pond, our local name for a pretty Atlantic inlet (a real draw around our region for fishing and scenic boating).
Moving through a pair of wide-open antique iron gates, we followed the long drive that led to the Finch Inn. The early-fall evening was temperate, and I rolled down my window to enjoy the night air. An icy salt breeze stirred the tall oaks on either side of the road. Their rippling leaves and swaying branches reminded me of the nearby ocean. Like Jack, I couldn’t see its body, but I could feel the effects of its tempestuous changes.
Farther out, the moan of a ship’s horn drifted down from the treetops like the lonely call of a night bird looking for its mate.
Finally, the historic home showed itself. Lit by a golden glow from within and tasteful landscape lighting from without, the beautifully kept turn-of-the-last-century Queen Anne looked like a colorful gingerbread house. Now a popular bed-and-breakfast, the Finch Inn featured three floors of luxury rooms, a widow’s walk, and working fireplaces in all the suites.
Visitors found it hard to believe this cheerful, welcoming Victorian confection had a dark history, but then nearly everything in New England did. Once upon a time, this estate belonged to an insane relative of the McClure family—the very clan I’d married into (but that was another story).
Following the winding drive, we reached the part of the pond where the lapping of the inlet’s tidal waters mingled with the sounds of laughter and the clatter of dinner plates. The inn’s new glass-walled restaurant, Chez Finch, had been built close enough to the pond for its glow to be reflected off the whispering waves.