Murder, She Wrote: The Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher

by Jessica Fletcher Donald Bain

  “Yes, Arthur, but if you’d rather I call at another time—”

  “This time is as good as any. The book business is never going to make me a millionaire. I can spare a few minutes out of the workday for an old friend. I tell you, Jessica, it gets worse every year. The landlord threatened to raise my rent again. He said his taxes are going up. Whose aren’t? But when I told him I’d walk away and let him get rid of my inventory himself, he had a change of heart. Thank goodness for that.”

  “Yes, thank goodness. It would be a great loss to the city if you closed. And speaking of inventory,” I said, hoping to stop Arthur’s rant before he tired of talking or was pulled away.

  “The books, you mean?”

  “Yes, of course the books. That’s why I’m calling.”

  “If you’re looking for any first editions of your own work, Jessica, I’m sad to say I’m all out. Well, maybe ‘sad’ isn’t the right word. Selling the books is what the shop is all about even if I’m loath to give up my old favorites.”

  “Oh, no, I have plenty of copies of my own books,” I said. “I have boxes of them stored in the attic.”

  “You do know that if you ever want to sell any of them, you have only to call. We don’t have to wait until you’re at death’s door. Brrrr. How did we get on this grim subject?”

  “Thank you for the offer, Arthur, but I’m not ready to part with them just yet. Actually, I’m calling to ask you if you’d be interested in reviewing someone else’s books—”

  “Look out, Roger! That pile is about to teeter over!”

  “Arthur?” I said. “Are you there?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. You were saying?”

  “That I’ve come across a collection of books—the owner passed away recently—and before we put them up—”

  “No! No! No!”

  “I understand if you’re too busy to come up here. I just thought—”

  “I wasn’t talking to you, Jessica. Roger is going to be the death of me. I’m sorry to ring off, but we’ve got a near disaster here. So good talking with you, my dear. Let’s do it again soon. Ciao.”

  Click!

  I looked down at the phone and shook my head. I knew that it would be a long shot calling Arthur Bannister. After all, despite his complaints, there are many avid readers in New York City, and his shop was a mecca for them in four languages. Arthur was a linguist along with being a bookseller—he spoke Spanish, Italian, and French as well as English—and kept track of every New Yorker with an important book collection. By combing through the daily obituaries, he also knew when they died. That was how he’d built his inventory, helping bereaved families dispose of their dearly departeds’ books. Not that Cliff Cooper’s book collection was important, but I hadn’t even gotten around to presenting my case. I decided to send Arthur a letter—old-fashioned, yes, but I knew if my message was on paper, it would get his attention.

  I typed up my request on the computer, printed it out, and signed it, adding a handwritten P.S. that it had been nice speaking with him.

  Cliff Cooper’s book collection numbered in the thousands, between those on the shelves in his library, scattered throughout the house, and even more stashed away in the cellar at the Spencer Percy House. What were the chances that Arthur Bannister could find a valuable first edition among them? I didn’t know. But I was hoping to coax him to bring his expertise to Cabot Cove, perhaps even to give a lecture at the library about collecting books. I was sure that his presence would stimulate a lot of interest in Cliff Cooper’s books and would spur sales. It would also shine a light on the library.

  As a member of the Friends of Cabot Cove Library, I was well aware of that institution’s budget shortfalls, and I always contributed to the annual appeal. But now an opportunity had presented itself to do more, and if my hometown library needed my help, I wanted to be the first to raise my hand.

  Where would we authors be without libraries?

  I’d participated for many years in programs at libraries around the country to talk about writing and to promote my books. It was how many of my fans first came to know about the mysteries of J. B. Fletcher. Eve’s casual comment about the library needing more staff had inspired my offer to help her with the book sale. It would benefit everyone. Book lovers could find bargains. Eve would clear the shelves at the Spencer Percy House. And the library would make money, maybe even enough to hire extra help.

  I tucked my letter to Arthur in my shoulder bag, locked the house, and wheeled my trusty bicycle to the road. I intended to stop at the post office first and then visit the library. I hoped that Doris Ann, our librarian, would like the idea of a book sale. It wasn’t as if the library hadn’t held one before, but this time there would be a good many more books than usual. If Eve and I were to be successful in our quest to raise a substantial amount of money, we would need the cooperation of the library and its friends.

  As usual, the post office was crowded. Charlene Sassi was juggling two cartons and trying to open the door when I arrived. I rushed forward. “Can I help you with those?”

  She turned to me. “If you would take the top one, Jessica, I’d be eternally grateful. It keeps slipping to the side. I’m afraid it’s going to slide off.”

  I picked up the top carton as a man exited the post office and held the door open for us. We found the last person in line and took our places behind him.

  “Thanks, Jessica. You’re a lifesaver. You can put the box back on top now.”

  “It’s no trouble to hold it, Charlene.” I lifted the box and sniffed it. “Sending some lucky person baked goods from Cabot Cove’s best bakery?”

  “Cabot Cove’s only bakery, you mean.” Charlene chuckled. She was being modest, though; her shop was one of the most popular spots in town. In addition to a variety of fresh breads and pastries, Charlene served coffee, tea, and hot chocolate for those who simply couldn’t wait to sample her goods. Many an evening’s dessert was consumed in the morning at the picnic tables outside the bakery, resulting in duplicate sales with no one the wiser at home.

  “I made cookies for my niece and nephew in Ohio, but if you can smell them, I didn’t wrap them properly.”

  “It’s probably just my imagination,” I said. “Whenever I see you, the wonderful aromas in your shop reach my nose. But as long as I have your attention, may I run an idea by you?”

  “Of course.”

  I told Charlene about the book sale that Eve and I were hoping to arrange, and asked if she’d be willing to hang a flyer in her store to help promote the event.

  “I’ll do better than that. I’ll bring cookies to the sale and contribute the proceeds to the library.”

  “That’s so generous. Thank you.”

  “No thanks needed, Jessica. This is a community event, and we’re all part of the community. Once you set a date, I’ll announce it at the Chamber of Commerce meeting. I’m sure every store in town will post your flyer and want to help out in any way they can.”

  By the time Charlene mailed off her cookies and it was my turn at the counter, we had worked out a plan for local merchants to sponsor a table of books in exchange for a sign at the event and a mention in the Cabot Cove Gazette. I stepped forward, pleased that arrangements for the book sale were already starting to take shape.

  The postal clerk greeted me. “How can I help you today, Jessica?”

  “I just need some stamps, Debbie. What have you got that’s cheerful?”

  Debbie pointed to a poster showing the post office’s current offerings, including stamps celebrating the circus, the War of 1812, Harry Potter books, and the Battle of Lake Erie. I bought a panel of Forever stamps depicting American songbirds, and stepped aside so the next person could approach the counter. The colorful stamps were charming, and I was delighted to see that some visitors to my bird feeder were among them. I peeled off the evening grosbeak, affixed it to
my envelope, and slipped my letter to Arthur Bannister into the mail slot.

  “That reminds me—I need to buy birdseed,” I murmured to myself.

  “Well, you won’t find that here,” said a gentleman behind me, “but Cabot Cove Hardware is having a sale on suet and seed.”

  “Tim Purdy! Just the man I wanted to see,” I said, delighted to encounter the town historian.

  Tim held out his hands. “No bird food here.”

  “I can take care of the birds later, but right now I need to know everything you can tell me about the Spencer Percy House and how Cliff Cooper came to accumulate so many books. Do you have time? Are you finished with your business here?”

  Tim patted his jacket pocket. “Just picked up my mail, Jessica, my major activity for the day. My time is yours.”

  “I’m on my way to the library. Walk with me?”

  “Sounds perfect. The library has photos of the Spencer Percy House going back to the 1880s, maybe even earlier. Let’s see what we can find.”

  Doris Ann, the library director, had the afternoon off, but Tim got the keys to the stacks from her assistant and ushered me into the Local History Room.

  “I love this room,” he said. “We’ve got all sorts of interesting things here, from high school yearbooks—even going back as far as mine—to old telephone directories, and loads of photographs.” He took a gray box from one shelf and squinted at its label. “These are program books from the annual Moose Lodge banquet. Bet they’re fun to read.” He opened the box and pulled out a sheaf of papers stapled together. “These days they use a color copier for their programs, but this one dates back fifty years. Look at the advertising. It’s just a page of business cards.”

  “Actually, I think they still do that,” I said. “May I see?”

  “Here you are. Just put it back in the box when you’re done.”

  “Look, Tim, there’s an ad for Knox on the Docks. That was before Mara bought the property for her luncheonette from Elvin Knox. And here’s one for Charles Department Store, and for Cliff Cooper and Son Carpentry.”

  Tim leaned over my shoulder to see the advertisement. “Must’ve been wishful thinking on his part, listing his son as his partner in the business. He would have been a kid at the time. Anyway, Cliff’s son never had any interest in following his father into the business. He wanted to travel the world, and I hear Cliff’s grandson is the same way. They had to track him down in Alaska to let him know about Cliff.”

  “Did you know Elliot’s father?”

  “Jerry Cooper? Not really. I was almost a decade ahead of him in school. You know teenagers. They never pay attention to anyone younger than they are. Did you ever have him in class when you were teaching?”

  “I don’t believe so. I think I would have remembered.”

  “Do you want me to hunt down his yearbook?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’d love to see what he looked like.”

  Tim pulled another box from the shelf and handed it to me. “Why don’t you sift through this box of photos and see if any of them are of the Spencer Percy House while I check the yearbooks?”

  I returned the banquet program to the preservation box, put it back on the shelf, and opened the photo box marked “Down East Historic Houses.” Inside was an assortment of eight-by-ten photos, smaller ones with wavy white borders, and a few Polaroids from which the color was fading. There were also clippings from old newspapers in plastic sleeves.

  “Find anything?” Tim asked.

  “There’s one picture of the house, but it doesn’t indicate when it was taken. It doesn’t look any different than it does today.” I handed it to Tim.

  “An imposing place, isn’t it?” he commented.

  “It certainly is large.”

  Tim handed the picture back to me. I was about to replace it in the box, when something caught my eye. “Look at this,” I said.

  “As I said, it’s an imposing place.”

  “No,” I said. “This.” I pointed to one of the windows in the photo.

  “What?”

  “It looks like—well, it looks like a woman’s face peering out.”

  “It does?” Tim said.

  “Don’t you see it? It’s vague and not clearly defined, but see the ethereal figure in the window?”

  Tim nodded. “I just see a white blur. Must be damage to the print or on the negative.”

  “It could be a woman in a white dress.”

  “You have a vivid imagination, Jessica.”

  “I suppose that’s why I’m a writer,” I said, returning the photo to the box.

  “I found Jerry Cooper’s yearbook,” Tim said, “but his name is listed under the ‘camera shy’ section. I see he was in the Explorers’ Club, but there’s only a listing, no picture.”

  “Oh. Too bad.”

  “You’re getting a firsthand glimpse into the tribulations of a historian. There are always gaps in the historical record.”

  “Do you know anything about Jerry’s wife?”

  “Never met the lady. I understand Jerry married her right out of college. I heard they moved in with Cliff for a while. It was after Nanette died. Marina, that was her name, must have been very shy. I never saw her in town. The last I heard about them was that they left the baby with Cliff, and he raised Elliot.”

  “Cliff once told me that his son and daughter-in-law went to South America—Colombia, I think—to research the indigenous peoples,” I said, “and that they were killed by the very tribe they were studying in the jungle. I was always curious whether he tried to recover their bodies to have them returned to Cabot Cove for burial.”

  “I wondered the same.”

  “Did you ever ask?”

  Tim shrugged. “It was a touchy subject to raise, and he always deflected any questions, saying Elliot was safer in his care.”

  “Well, that much is true,” I said. “If they’d taken him with them to South America, he would have been killed, too.”

  “Still want to look into the history of the Spencer Percy House?”

  “If you have the time,” I said.

  We spent the next two hours looking at papers about and photographs of the Spencer Percy House that the library had preserved on different devices.

  “I think that’s enough for one day,” I said to Tim. “Thanks so much for taking the time with me.”

  “My pleasure, Jessica. Anytime you want to do it again, just give a holler.”

  I returned home and tended to a myriad of projects demanding my attention. But I kept thinking about the history of the Spencer Percy House, the young couple who disappeared, and the possible treasure trove of books that Cliff Cooper had collected over the course of his life. Filled with appreciation for the house and its long history in Cabot Cove, I eagerly looked forward to returning there to continue going through the books, no matter how dusty and dirty the task might be.

  Chapter Four

  “Somebody is definitely not resting in peace, mes amis,” Eve Simpson said, looking around the table at Mara’s Luncheonette. “I think it’s Cliff Cooper.”

  Eve took a bite of her French fry and dropped the second half into the large canvas tote at her feet.

  I leaned over and peered down into Eve’s bag. Nestled next to a file folder holding a sheaf of papers was her Chihuahua, Cecil, working away at the fried potato with his few remaining teeth.

  “If Mara catches you doing that, she’s liable to call the cops,” said Seth Hazlitt as he sliced into a short stack of blueberry pancakes for which Mara was famous.

  “She doesn’t have to call. I’m already here.”

  Eve batted her eyelashes at Mort Metzger. “Now, Sheriff, you won’t tell on me, will you?”

  “You’re breaking the law bringing that dog in here, Ms. Simpson,” Mort said, “but as it happens, you’re in
luck. I’m on my lunch hour.”

  “I knew I could count on you.” Eve took another French fry from her plate and dropped it off the side of the table. “Anyway,” she continued, “we have to do an exorcism or something, or I’ll never get the Spencer Percy House sold.”

  “We?” I asked. “I don’t know what we can do to help you.”

  “Why do you think it’s a ghost?” Mort asked through a bite of lobster roll.

  “The painters quit. They said they couldn’t paint when the rooms were so cold. And they complained about hearing odd noises.”

  “I don’t suppose it would hurt to turn on the heat,” Seth said, adding a little extra maple syrup to his plate.

  “I have limited funds for the renovation,” Eve said. “Besides, they work with the windows open, and it’s been positively balmy outside.”

  “It’s been in the fifties,” Seth said, “hardly a heat spell.”

  “You could try another painting company,” Mort said.

  “Painters are just the beginning,” Eve said, waving around a French fry. “Two roofers got stranded up on the shingles when someone—or something—walked off with their ladder. And the janitorial service I hired said that not only were their cleaning ladies afraid to enter the bedrooms, but they wouldn’t go anywhere near the basement.”

  “Did the previous owner ever indicate the house was haunted?”

  “No, Sheriff, but Cliff Cooper always wore three sweaters even in July, so he wouldn’t have noticed any ghostly chill. Plus, he was so preoccupied with his reading, he wouldn’t have paid attention even if the walls fell down around him. I was hoping to find a prospective buyer before the funeral, but it doesn’t look possible right now, even though Evelyn Phillips promised to put an article in the Gazette.”

  “Still can’t believe he didn’t make it,” Seth said, spearing the last bit of pancake with his fork. “There was no reason why he couldn’t have recovered.” He scowled at the fork before finishing his meal.