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

by Alice Kimberly

  I stammered. “I really can’t tell you,” I said. “It just came to me.”

  Jack laughed again.

  Not to be outdone, Brainert sniffed, “Well, I’ll be happy to explain why you’re right.” He pulled out a sheet of paper from the pages scattered across his meal table. I reached for it, but Brainert held it out of my reach. “Not so fast,” he said. “We must start at the beginning.”

  I sat back down and crossed my arms like an obedient student. Like it or not, I was in for the long haul.

  “Poe was fond of riddles, and he was a romantic man who thirsted after love. He married Virginia Clemm when she was only in her early teens. Knowing his fondness for riddles, and his literary talent, in her girlish way she wanted to impress him. So one day Virginia wrote a poem to her husband. The poem was also a riddle, but a simple one. The feat delighted Poe as she hoped it would, and he always cherished that moment, even long after her death.”

  Brainert sighed. “Now, I don’t have that poem in front of me, but the riddle is easily explained. Virginia wrote the poem so the first letter in each of the thirteen stanzas spelled out Poe’s name. Thirteen stanzas, EDGAR ALLAN POE.”

  “Seems simple enough,” I replied.

  “So simple that both Miles Chesley and Dr. Conte tried that solution with the Phelps volumes—that is, taking the first letter of each of the thirteen volume titles to see if a cryptogram existed.”

  “And?”

  Brainert displayed the paper in his hand. “It spells this,” he said. “FRMEWIHDOAPTE, which is—”

  “Gibberish.”

  “Right.”

  “Exactly the conclusion both Miles Chesley and Dr. Conte came to,” said Brainert. “But you recall that much has been made of the unscholarly nature of the Phelps books. How he chose the names from sometimes-insignificant works as titles to his volumes. I mean, who ever heard of Poe’s essay ‘Music’? Hardly anyone beyond scholars, yet he chose to give that title to Volume Three.”

  “Okay, but where are you going with this?”

  Brainert slipped me another page. “Here are the titles and volume numbers of the Phelps editions. The first letter of each title is highlighted.”

  For Annie, Volume 1

  Romance, Volume 2

  Music, Volume 3

  Eleonora, Volume 4

  William Wilson, Volume 5

  Israfel, Volume 6

  Hop-Frog, Volume 7

  Dream Within a Dream, Volume 8

  On Imagination, Volume 9

  A Descent into the Maelstrom, Volume 10

  Pit and the Pendulum, Volume 11

  The Poetic Principal, Volume 12

  Eureka, Volume 13

  “I still don’t get it.”

  Brainert sighed as if he were dealing with a particularly thickheaded pupil.

  “It’s simple, Pen. The Virginia Clemm riddle solution doesn’t work because the Phelps books weren’t published from volume one to thirteen, in that order. They were actually published out of order.”

  “Huh?”

  “His contemporaries thought Phelps was again being slipshod. Those who purchased his volumes assumed as the operator of an amateur press, he didn’t do things in the proper order because of production delays and whatnot. But they were wrong.”

  Brainert waved another piece of paper under my nose. “Eugene Phelps was very careful and deliberate in the order he published the books, and in the controversial titles he chose. When taken together, these elements combine to break the code and solve the mystery!”

  Brainert shoved another page into my hand. “It was your aunt Sadie who researched the actual order of publication.

  She called me with the results of her labors. She’d been on the Internet all evening, checking collector sites. And it paid off. The Poe Code is broken.”

  I scanned the paper in my hand and found the order of publication was off drastically. Volume One published first, Volume Thirteen last, but everything in between was a mess:

  “And the secret message reads…”

  “FRAMED WITH POE,” Brainert declared.

  I smiled smugly. “Just like I already figured out.”

  Jack grunted in my head.

  “Okay,” I silently conceded to the ghost. “Like we already figured out.”

  Brainert nodded and grinned, gesturing to the image on the cell phone. I leaned in for a better look at the tiny screen. The portrait glowed like an unearthed jewel.

  CHAPTER 21

  Fingered

  Kidding around about women is all right…But let me tell you something, I’ve been a mailman for nine years, and I can say that we have a respectable bunch of women around here.

  —Bruno Fischer, “Five O’Clock Menace,”

  Black Mask, March 1949

  BRAINERT STARED AT me with his one good eye.

  “Not only have we found a new, previously unknown image of one of America’s greatest writers,” he declared, “we have also discovered another, as-yet-to-be-determined treasure, hidden behind the image, inside that thick wooden frame.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I said, “but what do we do about it?”

  That’s my baby. Without action, words are only good for heating up the air.

  Brainert thought it over for a minute. “After the doctors spring us tomorrow, the first thing we should do is drive back up to that mansion. We have to retrieve the treasure before it gets lost again—perhaps forever.”

  “It’s going to be tough getting past Raymond Chesley,” I warned him. “He’s got big muscles and he’s fond of waving a poker around.”

  “I’ll knock him down myself, if I have to!” Brainert declared. “No one will stop me from solving a mystery for the ages.”

  What do you know, Bow Tie Boy’s turned into Action Man.

  Using my cell, Brainert called Seymour Tarnish, who had just returned home after a slow night of trying to sell ice cream.

  “Stinking rain,” I heard Seymour complain. “The haunted house was a complete washout. Not a rugrat in sight.”

  Brainert told Seymour to come pick us up at the hospital first thing in the morning and drive us to Newport. He also issued strict instructions that Seymour was to tell no one where we were, what we were looking for, or where we were going—not even Sadie.

  “You got it, Brainiac. I could use a sick day. The mail can deliver itself. I’ll see you at sunup.”

  “Ugh. Nine o’clock will be sufficient,” Brainert replied.

  “I’m up at the crack of dawn every morning,” said Seymour. “You should try it.”

  “Yes. Whatever. Good night.”

  He handed me the cell phone. When I opened my purse I saw the envelope Sadie had given me earlier in the day. I’d forgotten all about it.

  “Oh, here! This belongs to you.”

  Brainert took the envelope, shook the stone into his palm, and examined it under the bedside light. “This isn’t mine,” he declared.

  “But…it’s got the St. Francis emblem, doesn’t it?”

  “Indeed it does. It’s similar to mine.” To illustrate the point, he showed me the ring on his finger. The stone was still in place. He handed the envelope back to me.

  “Anyway, black onyx isn’t for the teaching faculty. It’s for the sports teams, the coaches, and trainers.”

  I thought that over, remembered the store burglary. “Any chance this could be Nelson Spinner’s?” I asked. “Is he involved in any of the college athletic teams?”

  Brainert snorted. “Spinner’s sport is women. Preferably co-eds; the younger the better, which is why I tried to discourage your aunt from playing matchmaker with you two. He’s got a harem of admirers. It’s a wonder he gets any work done. I suspect he doesn’t. His tenure is hanging by a thread—”

  “Oh, really? What more do you know?”

  Brainert shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t mention it before because I don’t like to cast aspersions on fellow academics, but—”

  “Spit it out, Brainert!�
��

  “A few years ago Spinner was denied tenure,” Brainert explained. “A scandal about a plagiarized paper. There were other issues. He was using paid teacher’s assistants to paint his house instead of doing scholarly work, that kind of thing.”

  “What happened?”

  “What usually happens,” Brainert replied. “The college gave him a lecture and a second chance, but I don’t believe he’s published yet, and in my field it’s publish or perish. I believe Spinner will be out of a job in a year or so, when his contract runs out.”

  “Solving the Poe Code would go a long way toward securing his position, wouldn’t it? Which is a pretty good motive for murder.”

  “Indeed,” said Brainert. “Although I hate to think that a colleague of mine could be capable of such brutality.”

  I waved the envelope in my hand, thrust it into my purse. “You know, Spinner could have hired, or even blackmailed, some poor dumb student to do his bidding. And it was that student who attacked me—and lost the stone from his ring. Or…it could be from Claymore Chesley’s ring, if he has one. He did go to St. Francis as an undergrad. I didn’t notice a school ring on his finger, but that could be the reason he wasn’t wearing it the day I saw him—he could have lost the stone in my bookstore. He does look the type to be involved in athletics.”

  Brainert nodded. “Sure, but the stone might have nothing to do with the burglary.”

  I sighed. “We’re going to have to investigate both Nelson Spinner and Claymore Chesley,” I concluded, then yawned and stood up. “In the morning.”

  I PUT MY head on the crisp, white hospital pillow and what seemed like a minute later, someone was shaking me out of a deep, dreamless slumber.

  “Jack?” I muttered.

  “Ho, ho,” someone whispered. “Our sweet little Penelope has a secret lover.”

  I opened my eyes—and yelped.

  “Seymour? What are you doing here?” I cried, yanking up the sheets to cover my flimsy hospital gown.

  Brainert appeared at Seymour’s side. He was dressed and ready to go. “Hurry, Penelope. We have to get out of here.”

  “Oh…Okay.” Still groggy, I noticed the light coming through the hospital window was a pale pink. “What time is it?”

  “Quarter to seven,” said Seymour. “And you better hurry.”

  I sat up, finally awake. “What’s wrong?”

  Seymour frowned. “I got up this morning, called in sick. Then I headed down to Cooper’s looking to beat the mommy set to the croissants. I ran into Eddie Franzetti, QPD. He warned me to warn you: The autopsy on Rene Montour came in late last night. His wounds were not consistent with a car crash. He was probably dead before the wreck—beaten about the head with a blunt instrument.”

  “Oh, God,” I murmured.

  “That isn’t the bad news,” Seymour continued. “Detective Marsh is on his way to town. He’s looking to talk to you.”

  I threw my legs over the side of the bed. “Turn your backs, both of you,” I ordered. “I’ll be dressed in a minute.”

  “Make it snappy.” Seymour snapped his fingers to punctuate his command. “We have to move. Five gallons of ice cream only buys so much time.”

  “Huh?”

  “I know the security guard downstairs. I deliver his mail. And he’s a customer—you’d know it, too, if you saw him. A real porker. I bribed my way in here with a tub of rocky road. Unfortunately his shift ends in ten minutes.”

  I pulled on my slacks. “Seymour, I need your help to clear my name.”

  “You got it, Pen. I’m not going to let some CSI-type railroad a friend of mine.”

  I chewed my lip, trying to think of something clever fast, not easy on a sleep-deprived, caffeine-starved brain. The only thing I could come up with was Jack Shepard’s backdoor philosophy. Darn, I thought, that character “Beak” and his stolen Swifty Delivery uniforms would come in handy about now—

  You don’t need my street rat, Jack cracked in my head. You’ve got one of your own.

  Of course! I finally realized what was standing right in front of me. Or rather who.

  “I’ll need to borrow a few things, Seymour,” I said at last.

  “Sure. Like what?”

  “For starters? Your postman’s uniform and mail bag.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Male Drop

  “There’s probably a smart way to do this, but I can’t think of it at the moment.”

  —Philip Marlowe in “Trouble Is My Business,” by Raymond Chandler, 1934

  “I COULD GO to a federal penitentiary for aiding and abetting a suspected felon, you know,” Seymour groused.

  “And you know Pen didn’t murder anyone,” Brainert replied. “Pen and I both suspect two people. One of them is Nelson Spinner and he’s closer to the hospital, so we’re starting with him.”

  “But I’m a bona fide agent of the U.S. government,” Seymour complained. “I have responsibilities.”

  Brainert rolled his eyes—I mean eye, the other one was still swathed in bandages. “You’re a postal worker, Tarnish, not Elliott Ness. Get over yourself!”

  Seymour Tarnish was behind the wheel of his ice cream truck. Brainert was seated next to him. I was in the back compartment, surrounded by freezers, trays of plastic plates and spoons, and containers of sundae-making fixings. This was the spot where Seymour stood while he sold his cones and banana splits and nutty bars. I was stripped down to my underwear, trying to keep a low profile so no one would see me through the big side windows while I attempted to adjust one of Seymour’s tent-sized uniforms so it would fit me—an impossible task with a mere box of safety pins.

  “Couldn’t you get a mail truck, Seymour?” I asked. “An ice cream wagon is going to attract attention.”

  “Yeah, I can get a mail truck,” Seymour replied. “And I can guarantee a bevy of postal inspectors to go with it, ready to arrest us!”

  From my vantage point in the rear of the ice cream truck, I could see the gates to St. Francis College looming ahead. I’d managed to fix the dark blue uniform shirt by bunching it up in the back and pinning it, then pinning the sleeves up at the shoulders. The effect was somewhat ridiculous.

  Meanwhile, Brainert continued to curse our bad luck. “I can’t believe we’ve solved the mystery of the Poe Code, and were just about to secure the treasure. And now we have to deal with this! This…distraction!”

  “Hey!” I cried. “Perspective, please! I’m being framed for murder. That’s a little more than a distraction!”

  Brainert reddened, apparently getting a hold of himself. “You’re right, Pen. I’m sorry.”

  The ice cream truck hit a speed bump and bounced, throwing me against the counter just as I was trying to get my little leg into Seymour’s big pants. I looked up and saw that we’d passed through the college gates.

  “Bear right, Seymour,” Brainert directed. “This road will take you to the center campus.”

  St. Francis was a crescent-shaped campus built around Merrick Pond, a small body of water that was there when the institution was founded by Franciscan monks in 1836. Most of the halls and dormitories were built on the rolling hills that circled the pond. The oldest structure on campus, a massive stone monastery now transformed into the main administrative building, occupied the highest point on the property.

  We were on Lowry Road, which curved around the entire campus. Just past the 1960s-style circular dome called Kepler Auditorium, was Fenimore Hall, a massive four-story brick building where Brainert and Nelson Spinner taught classes and had their offices.

  “Park over there,” Brainert said, pointing to a spot against the wall, right next to a bright orange Dumpster. Meanwhile, I called Brainert to the back compartment to help me adjust the pants. Even Seymour’s belt was too big!

  “Here, use mine,” said Brainert, slipping it off. “I still have my thirty-six waist from college.”

  “Braggart,” Seymour muttered.

  “How do I look?” I asked, turning around
like a cream pie on a pastry display.

  “Absurd, but this shapeless coat should hide a multitude of sins.” Brainert tossed me the garment and I slipped it on, folded up the sleeves. He peered through the service window, at Fenimore Hall’s front entrance. “The guard is on duty. That means no one gets into the building without a valid student or faculty ID. Nobody, that is, except the mailman. Pen’s plan is wise, I have to admit. No one pays attention to the mailman. He’s invisible.”

  “I resent that,” Seymour snapped.

  Brainert Parker arched his visible eyebrow. “Tarnish, hasn’t it ever occurred to you that your extroverted behavior, your constant craving for attention, your anger and negativity, and that acerbic wit of yours, are merely desperate means of overcompensating for your meager station in life?”

  “I’m not angry,” Seymour replied. “And I don’t have an acerbic wit. That’s all you, Parker—”

  Their argument was interrupted by a student in a varsity jacket. He stood outside the truck, tapping on the service window with a coin. Seymour slid the pane open, glared at the shaggy-haired youth.

  “What d’ya want?” Seymour demanded.

  “I want some ice cream.”

  “Ice cream!” Seymour cried. “What’s wrong with you, Joe College. It’s nine o’clock in the morning. You can’t have dessert until you’ve cleaned your plate, so scurry off and find a traditional breakfast. You don’t want to grow up looking like Oprah before the diet.”

  Seymour slammed the window. “Stupid hair-head,” he muttered.

  “Okaaay,” said Brainert, “here’s the plan. I’ll go up to my office on the fourth floor and wait for Pen. She will follow in two minutes. The mail drop is on the first floor, but Pen will tell the guard that she has a package for me that I need to sign for personally, and he’ll send you up.”

  “But I don’t have a package,” I pointed out.

  “Take this.” Seymour shoved a small box in my hand. The words FLAVO-RITE PLASTIC SPOONS were emblazoned on the side.

  I stared at him. “I’m going into an institute for higher learning, not a food court.”