The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

by Alice Kimberly

  The old man had been struggling to even walk when he’d led us to the seats next to his library’s fireplace, yet he’d remained standing by his wheelchair, refusing to sit until Sadie and I had first taken our seats. And, even though it must have been a painful effort, he’d insisted on helping us pack up the books we took with us.

  I spoke up as I sat down. “Mr. Chesley, are you, by any chance, related to Peter Chesley, the retired Brown University professor?”

  “He’s my uncle,” Chesley responded tonelessly. “Or rather, he was.”

  It’s a cinch, Jack said. Manners skip a generation.

  “You don’t seem very upset about it,” I bluntly told the principal.

  That got his attention. He shifted away from the screen at last and focused hard on me. His eyes were blue—big, beautiful, electric blue. Obviously, he shared that line of DNA with his uncle. But not the expression, which was frosty as it peered at me, miles away from friendly. His eyes, however, weren’t what disturbed me the most; it was the body part located between them—

  “Your nose is swollen,” I blurted out.

  Claymore frowned. His hand automatically touching the puffy, discolored skin. “Accident. Up on the highway. It was hardly more than a fender bender but the airbag deployed. That’s why I’m late.”

  I shifted uneasily, trying not to give away how disturbed I was by this claim. Just yesterday I had clobbered a well built masked man—

  Right in his beezer! Jack finished for me.

  “His what?”

  His nose, his nose!

  “Okay! Okay!” I silently told Jack. “But what if claymore here is telling the truth? I can’t swear the injury is fresh. What if he really was in a car accident?”

  Look, baby, if this joker really was in an accident, then his boiler out there should have some sort of dent in it. A few scratches, at least. If it doesn’t, you know he’s playing you for a rube.

  “Should I make an excuse, get up now and check?”

  Don’t move your keister. Check the parking lot when you leave. Right now, you’ve got to conduct your interview—only don’t let the yegg know you’re interrogating him. Facts, baby, get me some facts.

  I stalled to get my thoughts in order, pretending to cough and clear my throat. Finally, striving to keep my tone conversational, I said, “I knew your uncle. Not very well or anything, but that’s why I asked. And I’m very sorry about your loss.”

  “Thanks, but I hadn’t seen the man in over twenty years.”

  “Really? Why is that?”

  Claymore shifted in his seat; the old leather chair creaked. “Uncle Peter was part of the Newport Chesleys. My side of the family lives in Millstone. Years ago, the two sides had a falling-out. You know how it is with family feuds?”

  I nodded, as if commiserating, but my mind was racing. Millstone was the next town over. Like Quindicott, it was a far cry from Newport. In fact, as property values and incomes went, Millstone was even less affluent than Quindicott.

  Ms. Jane had already said Claymore needed money, that he’d come back East to help his aging parents. If that were true, then Claymore’s side of the family must not have benefitted from any of the inheritance Peter’s side had received. But just how cut off were they?

  “So you’ve never been to the family’s old estate near the ocean, Prospero House?” I asked.

  “Not since I was very young. I remember it being fairly creepy.”

  “Yes, well…I was just there—on the night your uncle died.” I eyeballed Claymore, trying to gauge his reaction, but the man just kept staring at me, stone-faced. “It looked like the mansion was falling down around his ears,” I added pointedly.

  “Is that so? Well…like I said, Mrs. McClure, all I know about my uncle’s death is what I read in the papers.”

  “But the papers didn’t say much of anything.”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  “Your uncle died falling down a flight of stairs. But he had severe arthritis and he told me and my aunt that he no longer climbed the stairs. He’d even moved his bedroom to the first floor.”

  “That’s odd, but then…” He shrugged. “My uncle was sort of odd, as I recall.”

  “So you haven’t been back long?” I asked.

  “What do you mean? Back from lunch?”

  “No, back here in Rhode Island. When I stopped by yesterday, Ms. Jane told me about your credentials. Very impressive. You went to St. Francis College, but then you moved away, went to California to get your doctorate and you stayed out west, right? You became a professor at a teacher’s college. So when exactly did you move back East? And what exactly have you been up to?”

  Whoa, baby, slow down! You’re moving too fast!

  The second Jack said it, I knew I’d messed up.

  Claymore Chesley stiffened, then adjusted his tie. “What is this? A job interview?” He laughed to undercut his discomfort, then he glanced at his watch. “Didn’t you come here to discuss your son?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. I was just curious. You’re one of Buy the Book’s customers—I mean, I’ve seen you in our store—and I like to know about my customers. It helps me better serve them.”

  “I moved back to Millstone last February, Mrs. McClure,” he said curtly. “And I browse lots of bookstores, but I buy them on the Internet. Now let’s discuss your son….” He scanned the file Ms. Jane had handed to him and leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “Spencer, right? What’s the problem?”

  “Jack,” I silently wailed, “what do I do?”

  Talk about your son. Set the man at ease. Make him think that you’re not grilling him…then go back to grilling him!

  I dug into my handbag and laid out the reason I’d come, placing Spencer’s ripped Reader’s Notebook and the pieces of his first-place award certificate on the principal’s desk. I explained that there’d been bullying on the bus, that a child named Boyce Lyell had been responsible and the eyewitness was Susan Keenan, the mother of one of Spencer’s friends.

  Claymore Chesley picked up the shredded notebook and shook his head. “This is unacceptable,” he said. “We’ll have to punish Boyce, of course, although…I can see how this happened.”

  I nodded. “Yes, I agree. No supervision on the buses is obviously a problem.”

  “What?…No, Mrs. McClure, that’s not the problem. We already have supervision on the buses. They’re called bus drivers.”

  I bristled at the man’s tone, which had gone from terse to downright insufferable.

  “A bus driver isn’t a monitor,” I replied, trying to keep my own tone reasonable and courteous. “A driver’s job is to drive the bus safely, pay attention to the road, not watch the kids. That’s exactly what Spencer’s driver told Susan Keenan when she berated him for not stopping the bullying.”

  “Wait, wait! Back up. Are you telling me a parent berated one of our drivers? We can’t have that sort of thing going on. That’s unacceptable treatment of an employee. What did you say her name was? Susan…” He picked up a pen. “Can you spell her last name?”

  I stared speechless for a moment. “Principal Chesley, I’m talking about a bullying incident here. I’m talking about how to fix the situation of no supervision on the buses.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with our system, Mrs. McClure. This incident on the bus with your boy is the only one that’s come up this school year.”

  “The school year just started yesterday!”

  “Nevertheless, you see my point?”

  “What point?!”

  “The bus drivers are on the bus. The bus drivers are also adults. Therefore, there are adults on the buses already. You see? Follow the simple syllogism and there are no monitors needed.”

  We went around and around like that for five more minutes. Finally, the principal stood up. “I understand your concerns, Mrs. McClure, and I’ll take it under advisement—”

  “No you won’t,” I snapped, risin
g to my feet as well. “You’re just patronizing me. But I’m taking this up with the school board.”

  “You won’t get anywhere. The school budget’s on a shoestring as it is. We can’t afford to pay teachers to ride the buses.”

  “Well, the children’s safety comes first. Or at least it should. If you won’t address the problem through administration, I’m sure the parents can organize volunteers to ride the buses each day and provide supervision. I’ll bring it up at the next PTA meeting.”

  “That’s very resourceful of you, but let’s be frank. Your son was bullied for a reason.”

  “Excuse me? You don’t even know my son.”

  “I know you own a bookstore.”

  “So?”

  “So…” Claymore Chesley shrugged. “It’s understandable that a bunch of angry kids were upset he won the summer reading contest. I know at least one of the evaluating teachers broached the subject of disqualifying him for having an unfair advantage.”

  “Unfair advantage? Let me tell you something. My boy read every single book in that notebook. And every single book he read was checked out of the public library, which every child in this school has access to.”

  Claymore made a scoffing face. “Oh, come on. You’re telling me the kid didn’t use your bookstore?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m telling you. You think I’d allow him to read books then put them back on the shelf to be sold as new? You’ve got a pretty low view of people, don’t you, Mr. Chesley?”

  “People cheat all the time, Mrs. McClure.” Claymore glanced at his watch. “Jane!” he called loudly and rudely through the half-open door.

  “Yes, Principal Chesley,” said the secretary running to see why he’d bellowed.

  “Is my next appointment here?”

  “Yes, sir. Mrs. Sereno wanted to discuss the decorations for the Halloween party.”

  “Fine. Send her in.”

  I couldn’t believe the man’s level of rudeness. I waited for him to at least extend his hand and bid me goodbye, but he simply stood there, glaring.

  It took a great force of will for me to refrain from extending my own hand and offering a polite and meek, even apologetic farewell. But I’d already done that more times in my life to count—reacted to overt hostility, even blatant rudeness, with a sort of cowed politeness, pretending the insult never happened instead of facing it head-on.

  I was always making excuses for people like Claymore Chesley, telling myself that they were just stressed and emotional because they had problems in their lives. But they weren’t the only ones with problems! I’d had problems all my life and I never stopped striving to display manners, to treat people with respect.

  That’s when I realized, I’d been so desperate in the past to reestablish an atmosphere of civility (with my in-laws, my old bosses in publishing, even my own moody, verbally abusive late husband), that I’d let nasty people get a way with…with…

  Bullying, baby.

  Oh my God, I thought. All those years…. I was simply letting myself get bullied instead of standing up and saying, “Hey! Wait a second. You shouldn’t treat people like that! And you’re not going to treat me like that!”

  Baby, why do you think I’ve been saying, “Take it to the mat?”

  I cleared my throat, but this time it wasn’t to stall. It was to make sure my voice was loud and clear. “I’m not through here, Mr. Chesley,” I said, not caring that Jane Wiley and Mrs. Sereno were standing only a few feet away.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said people cheat all the time. Well, some people do. And some people don’t. Some people are honest all the time, and upstanding and trustworthy, too. Or at least they try to be. And some of us, including your uncle Peter, God rest his soul, actually have manners.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you implying I don’t?”

  “You didn’t have the decency to apologize for being late. You never offered me a seat or your hand to shake. And you had the nerve to imply that my son, the victim of a crime, had it coming.”

  “You’re overreacting—”

  “I’m leaving the evidence of that little boy’s destructive bullying on your desk. And by the way, it was only one boy. One bully. Not ‘a bunch of angry kids.’ So I expect that Boyce Lyell will be punished for his actions.”

  Claymore nervously glanced at the school secretary and the art teacher watching the scene with wide eyes. The man fidgeted, crossing and uncrossing his arms, clearly embarrassed he’d miscalculated. He’d called his next appointment in to embarrass me into leaving. But I wasn’t leaving until I’d said my peace, audience or not.

  “I also expect a letter of reprimand to go to his parents,” I continued, “and I’m expecting to be copied on it, so I know I don’t have to take this matter up the ladder to the school district, over your head, got it? Is that clear enough for you?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said, my threat finally prying a civil tone out of his mouth. “I’ll make sure the boy is punished and his parents notified. You’ll be copied, as you asked. Anything else?”

  I blinked, staring in silence for a few seconds.

  “Mrs. McClure,” he prompted. “Anything else?”

  Yeah, pal, Jack piped up in my head. Just one more question: Did you happen to murder your old uncle Pete? Give Rene Montour the big chill? And break into my bookstore?

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “I blew it, didn’t I?” I silently asked Jack. “There’s no way I’m getting anything more out of this guy about his uncle or the rest of his family.”

  Don’t sweat it. sweetheart. You took care of things for your boy. You did good. Now scram. Blow this joint.

  “There’s nothing else,” I finally declared. “And I’m sure you can understand why I won’t be saying, it was a pleasure.”

  Swallowing my nerves, I reached for as much dignity as I could muster, picked up my handbag, secured the strap over my shoulder, and wheeled to face the door.

  Ms. Jane and Mrs. Sereno were still standing right there in the doorway. I could tell from their expressions—a striking combination of shock and awe—that I was the last person they’d expected to read Claymore Chesley the riot act.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” I said, polite as can be.

  From now on, I decided, civility was going to be a gift. Something I’d gladly bestow on civil people. No more freebies for schmucks, I thought, as I pushed through the glass door and stepped into the school hall.

  I heard Jack Shepard laughing and then a little boy’s voice.

  “Hi, Mrs. McClure.”

  I looked down to see Danny Keenan wiping water away from his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He was standing next to a drinking fountain.

  “Were you just in the principal’s office?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “I heard yelling. Were you yelling at the principal?”

  “Yes, Danny. I was.”

  His freckled face broke into a grin. “I can go tell Spencer you’re here, if you want. He’s in the cafeteria.”

  “No, Danny. That’s all right. But thank you for being so thoughtful.”

  “No problem, Mrs. McClure.” He waved as he headed back down the hall. “Have a nice day.”

  Well, what do you know, I thought, as I struck out for the parking lot to inspect Clay Chesley’s vehicle.

  What?

  That ten-year-old had better manners than his principal.

  Yeah, honey. That’s a fact.

  CHAPTER 17

  Assault and Battery

  “If you have something to say at all, tell me where it is.”

  “Where what is?”

  —Mike Hammer, refusing to talk in The Big Kill,

  by Mickey Spillane, 1951

  WHEN WE WERE teenagers and still in high school, the Parker family’s rambling Victorian on Crescent Drive was a gray monstrosity, surrounded by wild bushes and an overgrown yard. The porch sagged and so did the gutters. The unpruned branches of a
century-old elm butted against the three-story building’s paint-chipped walls and drafty windows.

  But since inheriting the house in the early 1990s, Brainert had fully restored it to its original grandeur. Gray walls were now sky blue, the trim around the eaves and windows virgin white. Surrounding the house, the expansive lawn now resembled a manicured golf course; and, in the spring and summer, the path to the front door was bordered by an array of flowers.

  The porch no longer sagged—because the rotting vertical banisters had been torn out and new ones put in. But the entranceway was what impressed me the most. Simple windows had been replaced with stained glass, and a carved oak door purchased from a bankrupt Victorian hotel had replaced the original flimsy plywood.

  It was somewhere between 1:30 and 2:00 when I parked my Saturn at the curb and strode up the pathway to Brainert’s house. I noticed his front door stood wide open—but my friend was nowhere in sight.

  I began to worry. Moving closer, I spied a plant overturned on the porch, its clay pot shattered, rich, black soil everywhere. Now I was alarmed. I cautiously climbed the porch steps.

  “Hello, Brainert? Are you there?” I called.

  No answer.

  I took a few steps through the doorway and gasped. The interior hall was a total wreck—tables overturned, a framed painting knocked askew, a floor lamp tipped over and smashed on the parquet floor.

  Panic mode now. “Brainert!”

  I was far enough inside the house to peer around the corner, into the living room. That’s when I saw my old friend, Jarvis Brainert Parker, lying facedown on a bloodstained Persian rug.

  IN MY SATURN, I hugged the bumper of the ambulance the whole way to Benevolent Heart Hospital, a stone’s throw from St. Francis College. By the time I parked my car and made it to the ER’s front desk, Brainert had been admitted and the doctors were working on him.

  I used my cell to call Sadie, told her Brainert had been assaulted, that I was at the hospital with him. We both knew this was no random crime, no mugging or burglary, but we left that thought unspoken. My aunt promised to watch for Spencer, while I stayed to hear about Brainert’s condition. It was an hour before I heard any news.