The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library hb-3

by Alice Kimberly

  “And?”

  “And apparently he got into his car at around nine o’clock last night, drove away, and never came back. Fiona said she didn’t know where this guy went, but she said that you might know.”

  “Me?”

  Ciders looked at me squarely. “Fiona said you had business with this man. That your aunt Sadie sent him over to her inn yesterday.”

  You’ve been fingered, baby. Your pal the Bird Lady has been singing like a canary.

  “Huh?”

  Your friend ratted you out.

  Jack was, of course, referring to Fiona Finch. He called the innkeeper the Bird Lady because, in addition to her married surname, Fiona regularly wore one of a huge collection of brooches fashioned in the images of birds.

  “Was his name Montour?” I asked. “Rene Montour?”

  Ciders nodded. “That’s him. Canadian citizen—French-Canadian. He was a solicitor, according to his passport. He’s over there on the stretcher, deader than a monger’s mackerel.” Suddenly the chief remembered that Spencer was in the front seat next to me. “Er…Sorry, Mrs. McClure.”

  I was too busy staring at the accident scene to voice any motherly indignation. “What did you find inside the car?” I asked.

  Ciders shrugged. “A bunch of old books and a cloud of packing plastic. The box broke open from the force of the crash. There are books scattered all over.”

  “I need to see them,” I said.

  “Mom!” Spencer cried.

  “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

  I climbed out of the car and walked toward the accident scene. I didn’t get five steps before Ciders grabbed my arm.

  “That’s a restricted area, Mrs. McClure.”

  “I have to see the books,” I repeated. “All of them.”

  Ciders cupped his beefy hands around his mouth. “Hey, Womack,” he bellowed.

  Near the smashed car, an officer looked up.

  “Bring those books over here,” Ciders commanded. “All of them.”

  Officer Womack picked up a large box emblazoned with the logo for Tide laundry detergent. He carried the crate across the field, avoiding the rutted tire tracks. Finally he reached the shoulder of the road and plopped the box down on the hood of a police car.

  “Go ahead, Mrs. McClure. Take a look. Then tell me what you’re looking for.”

  I hurried over and quickly rummaged through the books. The box contained eight volumes—all Raymond Chandler first editions. All were damaged—dents and scrapes, mostly. One had a broken spine, another edition’s dust cover was in tatters. All the books were damp from the morning dew, their pages curled.

  “There’s nothing else?” I asked. “I’m looking for a smaller box, with a single volume inside?”

  Womack shrugged. “None we can find. But we ain’t looking too hard.”

  “This box is smaller. It might not have broken open. The box might be in the trunk, or still in the back seat.”

  “The trunk’s empty,” said Officer Womack. “There was only one box in the back seat, ripped open from the crash.” Womack shrugged. “I can look again, but—”

  “Please,” I said. “Look again. Or I will.”

  Officer Womack stared at me, then faced Ciders. To the man’s surprise, the chief nodded and sent him on his way. The officer returned to the crash scene, grumbling. Ciders redirected his gaze toward me.

  “If you just tell me what this is about, we—”

  “Is this an accident or a crime-scene investigation, Chief Ciders?”

  The man blinked, then his eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at, Mrs. McClure?”

  “My aunt and I sold Mr. Montour a very valuable book yesterday, worth many thousands of dollars. If it’s gone, then someone might have stolen it—”

  “Nothing, Chief,” Womack called from the crash site. “Just a lot of that packing foam.”

  “Thanks, Tom,” Ciders replied. Then he faced me again. “What were you saying?”

  “I was saying that if this book is missing, then there may have been a crime committed—”

  Ciders raised his hand. “I don’t know about any theft, Mrs. McClure, but it’s clear what happened here. Mr. Montour went to dinner, had a few drinks. Unwisely, he chose to take a drive. On Crowley Road, at the top of the hill, he got the red light. He braked, but while he was waiting for the light to turn green, he passed out. His foot slipped off the brake and his car rolled down the hill, out of control.”

  “You’ve completely ruled out foul play?” I asked.

  “This was an accident,” Ciders replied, growing increasingly cranky. “You can still smell the booze in the guy’s car, Mrs. McClure. This guy Montour was soused—to the gills.”

  “But—”

  Ciders cut me off. “Look at the tire marks. The man never braked, not even when his car careened through the fence and hit the grass.”

  I looked at the marks—on the road and in the dirt. There were no skid marks on the pavement, no swerving curves in the grass, just a pair of straight lines right into the tree. Chief Ciders was correct: Montour never braked.

  “And by the way, Mrs. McClure. I was out here last year, same place, same kind of accident. Only that time it was the high school quarterback, Tyler Scott. The kid went to an illegal drinking party, passed out at the wheel. The punk survived the crash. Can’t say the same for the team. They lost the regional playoffs.”

  Ciders looked over his shoulder, at the shrouded form on the stretcher. “That Scott kid got away with two broken legs. Frenchy there wasn’t so lucky.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Book-marked for Murder

  I want a burglar. A good, first-class burglar.

  —William Brandon, “It’s So Peaceful in the Country,”

  Black Mask, November 1943

  AFTER LEAVING THE accident scene, I drove Spencer directly to school. I was plenty agitated about Rene Montour’s death, but for my son’s sake I intended to follow through with seeing Principal Eleanor P. McConnell.

  Tightening the grip on my handbag’s strap, I entered the Quindicott Elementary School administration offices. Spencer’s ripped Reader’s Notebook and his torn certificate were tucked inside my bag, ready to be whipped out as incriminating evidence.

  But there was no whipping to be done—not yet anyway.

  The school secretary informed me that Mrs. McConnell was out on maternity leave and had been temporarily replaced by a new man with “impressive” credentials.

  “He got his doctorate in California and worked out there as a professor of education at a prestigious teacher’s college,” the secretary said. “But he’s from Newport originally and even attended St. Francis College, so now he’s back in the area.”

  “Oh,” I said, recovering. “May I see him?”

  “He’s not in, ma’am. We don’t expect him in this morning until eleven.”

  I automatically glanced at my watch. It was just after nine—no way I was wasting two hours waiting here. “Can I make an appointment to see him tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” said the secretary. She took down my name and phone number, and then I asked for the new principal’s name.

  “It’s Chesley,” the secretary said. “Claymore Chesley.”

  I was still reeling from that little revelation when I’d returned to the store to find my aunt wearing the doe-eyed expression of a thief caught with one hand in the till.

  “I know what you’re going to say, Penelope,” she told me the second I’d entered. “You’re going to say I was wrong to do it. But I’m glad I did.”

  I noticed that the Phelps editions were spread out across the counter beside the register. Sadie noticed that I noticed, and she immediately started babbling.

  “Before you scold me, you have to understand that I couldn’t help myself. The man was just so…persuasive. And his offer was generous, too generous to pass up.” Her face was flushed, her hands flailing madly. “Please forgive me and try to understand,” she continued,
moving around the counter. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “Who wouldn’t, Aunt Sadie? What’s going on?” She was speaking so fast, and I was still so rattled by the morning’s events, it took me a minute to catch up.

  “That man who called last night,” she replied. “Mr. VanRiij from New York City. He came here about an hour ago—”

  “You sold another Poe!” I shrieked.

  “I know I shouldn’t have done it—”

  “We have to find this man. Right away!” I bolted for the door.

  “Pen, stop!” Sadie ran after me, grabbed my arm. “It’s too late. He’s already on his way back to New York.”

  “Please, just tell me what happened,” I demanded, turning to face her.

  Her hands went back to fluttering like bee wings. “I sold him the book he wanted. Volume Ten, A Descent into the Maelstrom. He paid eight thousand dollars for it—and that’s not counting sales tax!”

  “Oh…God…I need to sit down.” I collapsed into the nearest Shaker-style rocker.

  “I know,” Sadie said, grinning. “I couldn’t believe the amount myself. That’s nearly four times the book’s market value—”

  “No, you don’t understand,” I said, holding my head. “By selling Mr. Van Riij that book, you may have marked the poor man for murder!”

  Sadie’s teeth about hit the floor when I told her about Rene Montour’s demise in an “accident.” I recounted my confrontation with Chief Ciders, telling her how the Chandler books were scattered all over the crash scene, but the Phelps Poe was missing. And I was convinced it was stolen.

  Despite her pragmatic nature, and her usual distaste for rationalized baloney, Sadie began equivocating.

  “But, Pen, Mr. Montour’s death…it could have been an accident.” She began to pace the aisle. “It’s possible the box containing the Phelps book was thrown clear in the crash, or it might not have been in the car. Perhaps he left the book at Fiona’s inn.”

  I sighed and began massaging my temples.

  “And, remember,” she went on, “you didn’t search the scene yourself. You only have the policemen’s word that the area was thoroughly searched. You know how un-thorough the Quindicott Police have been in the past.”

  Instead of debating her, I met Sadie’s gaze with my own. “Do you really believe Peter Chesley’s death was an accident?”

  For a long moment, Sadie fell silent. Then slowly, sadly, she shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “I’d like to. It would be so much easier to believe it was, but…”

  “But we both know what we saw and heard at Chesley’s house, right?” I said, unwilling to look the other way any longer. “No matter what the Newport police say. We both believed that someone was in his house, and that someone instigated Peter’s ‘fall’ down the steps. That means there’s been at least one murder, and probably a theft.”

  “But what should we do about it?” Sadie asked, wringing her hands. “Should I contact Mr. Van Riij? Warn him that he’s now in danger—”

  “He won’t believe you. Chief Ciders didn’t believe me. As it stands, we have no proof of a murder plot.” I shook my head. “This is one dilemma the two of us”—

  The three of us, Jack Shepard cut in.

  —“will have to work out ourselves. Right now secrecy is our best defense. Have you told anyone about the sale? Anyone at all?”

  Sadie blinked. “Only Brainert, I guess.”

  “Brainert knows? Why? Was he here this morning?”

  “No. He called before the store opened and asked me to scan the title page of each volume of the Poe collection, then send the digital files to him on an e-mail attachment.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “He said he needed to examine the text on those pages in particular.”

  “But why?”

  Sadie shrugged. “Something that Professor Spinner fellow mentioned apparently got him curious. Anyway, I brought all of the books to the front and made the scans. That’s when Mr. Van Riij knocked on the door. I told him we weren’t open yet, but he was so pushy. He barged in, saw the books near the register, and made an offer on the spot.”

  “So how does Brainert know about the sale?”

  “He called back to let me know my e-mail came through okay. That’s when I mentioned selling another volume of the set. Brainert wasn’t happy, but he was relieved I’d scanned copies of the title pages before I sold any more books. Brainert claims he’s on the verge of solving the Poe Code.”

  “What?!” I cried. “Professor Spinner already debunked the existence of the code! How could Brainert be on the verge of solving it?”

  Sadie shrugged. “That’s what he said.”

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON WAS Sadie’s time to help out at the church with event planning. Since school for Spencer didn’t end until 3:15 and Garfield wasn’t on the schedule until tomorrow, I was momentarily stuck behind the counter, unable to raise Brainert by phone or leave the store to track him down.

  We’d only seen a few customers all morning, which gave me far too much time to worry about Rene Montour, the Phelps editions, Brainert apparent solving of the Poe Code, and my appointment with another Chesley.

  “Could the new principal really be a relative of Peter’s?” I’d been muttering to myself for hours. “Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

  I was dying to ask my aunt what she thought, but she’d been so worked up about the second Poe sale that I thought it was best to just send her off to her church work and find another time to discuss the sudden appearance of another Chesley.

  When 1:00 P.M. rolled around, I decided to close for a quiet lunch. I hung the BACK IN ONE HOUR sign and threw the bolt, then, lunch in hand, I moved to a favorite spot I’d set up in the back corner of the selling floor.

  There, in an easy chair, I could eat in peace and not be visible, like some zoological specimen, to people passing on the sidewalk. Otherwise, on a slow day like this, I could almost imagine the plaque outside the window—“Female of the species Bookstorus Independicus, nearly extinct.”

  I’d just sunk into the chair when I heard a sound, like furniture bumping together. It seemed to be coming from the Community Events space.

  I peeked around the archway. The room was empty and silent. Then I noticed the door to the storeroom was wide open, and strong hands seized me from behind, pinning my arms.

  “Where are those books?” a male voice hissed in my ear.

  “What books? This store is full of them, you know!”

  The man spun me around and slammed me against the wall, bouncing my head off the Dennis Lehane co-op poster.

  “The books!”

  The intruder’s voice was raspy, like he was trying to disguise it. I felt my blood pumping, my vision fade to red.

  Calm down, doll.

  Jack was here. I wasn’t alone. I clung to that thought like a dinghy to an anchor in a category Four.

  Trust me, sweetheart. I’ll walk you through this.

  “How?” I mentally demanded.

  Take inventory. What’s in front of you?

  I blew out a held breath, tried to memorize details. The intruder was taller than me by at least a head and had broad shoulders. He wore a black denim jacket and a black woolly cap pulled down over his face like a hood.

  It wasn’t a tailored ski mask, I realized. This was a do-it-yourself job with just two eye slits ragged and askew. I couldn’t see any other part of his face, so I tried to make out his eye color, but the man was wearing tinted glasses beneath his mask. The effect was impressively scary. He wore gloves and his grip was painfully tight.

  The man shook me. “You know what I’m talking about, lady. I want the old books. The valuable ones.”

  I knew he meant the Phelps editions and immediately wondered if this was the same man who threw Peter Chesley down the stairs and murdered Rene Montour on a deserted stretch of road. If it was, what would he do to me?

  Play Amish, Jack advised.

  “What?”<
br />
  Surrender. Play up the shivers. Pretend to cooperate. But be ready to clock the yancy when you glim an opening—

  “Huh?”

  Just do what I say.

  The intruder shook me again. “Answer me. Show me the books or I’ll hurt you. I mean it.”

  The Lone Ranger here isn’t expecting you to fight. You’re gonna wallop him good where and when I tell you—

  “No, Jack! I can’t do that! He’s too big! I can’t—”

  You can. You’re going to sock this yegg in the nose, okay? Take him to fist city then run to the front door. All you have to do is throw the bolt and you’re outside. Dollars to donuts, he won’t follow you.

  “Okay, okay…I’ll try.”

  I went limp in the man’s grip, spoke in a frightened voice. “The books you want…They’re by the register.”

  I felt his grip loosen. “Where?” he demanded, not nearly as stridently as before.

  Use your wing, doll. Point them out.

  I did as Jack commanded. To my surprise, when I moved my right arm to point, the intruder actually let go of it. I lifted my arm higher. My eyes never left the bump in the middle of his mask.

  “The books are over—”

  Clobber him!

  I swung around with my fist and pounded the intruder right in the nose. The blow hurt me, so I didn’t need to hear the startled howl to know it hurt the stranger.

  Yelling a string of obscenities, the man stumbled backward and away from me.

  Scram out, Penelope! Run!

  I bolted out of the events room and through the store. I was nearly halfway to the front door before I heard his heavy footsteps coming up behind me. To slow him down, I pushed the four-foot corrugate display of P. D. James’s latest title into the man’s path. The display was packed with frontlist hardcovers. He crashed right into it. Books flew everywhere.

  Nice move, sister!

  “Thank god it wasn’t her paperback edition!”

  I kept on running until I slammed into the front door with enough force to ring the chime. I twisted the bolt, flung the door open, and hit the sidewalk yelling my head off for help!