Mary Anne and the Haunted Bookstore

by Ann M. Martin

  “Are you ready to work?” Ms. Spark asked.

  “We are,” I answered. “This is Kristy Thomas, Mallory Pike, and Logan Bruno. They’re members of the BSC too.”

  “Oh.” The boy snorted and shook his head.

  I ignored him and continued with the introductions. “This is Ms. Spark. She’s helping Mr. Cates set up the store.”

  “So glad that all of you could come,” Ms. Spark said, showing her dimples. She smiled so much that they seldom disappeared. “I bet it looks as if I’m not working very hard. But you should have seen the place when we started. What a mess!”

  “Hey, you’re talking about my property,” the boy said.

  When Ms. Spark looked at him her smile dimmed a little. “This is Alex Gable. Larry — Mr. Cates — bought the house from Alex’s father.”

  “We are the only living descendants of Benson Dalton Gable,” Alex announced. “He was a famous mystery writer in his day, far more popular than Edgar Allan Poe.”

  “I don’t know if I’d go that far,” said Ms. Spark.

  “In Poe and Gable’s day, literature was appreciated much more than schlock,” said Alex.

  “I wouldn’t say that Poe wrote schlock. His work has endured across generations. He wrote some of the best-known works in American literary history,” said Ms. Spark.

  Kristy and Logan wandered off and started looking around the room as Ms. Spark and Alex argued over the merits of Poe versus Gable. Mal and I stayed to listen. I still had to come up with a topic for my project, after all.

  Alex shrugged. “If we could find all of Gable’s works, he might become more well-known than Poe.”

  “Perhaps,” said Ms. Spark.

  Alex had made one point that I knew was valid. I’d read that in Poe’s day, people didn’t like the stories and poems he wrote nearly as much as they do now. I’d known the name Gable because everyone in Stoneybrook called the house “the Gable place,” but I hadn’t known that Gable wrote mysteries like Poe did. Alex knew a lot, but I could tell from the way he glanced at us as he spoke that he was trying to impress Ms. Spark and us.

  Maybe I could use Gable in my mystery project. “Is there a book of Gable’s stories?” I asked.

  “No. At least, not yet,” said Alex. “My dad and I have all his papers — the ones that we’ve been able to find so far. All his stories were published in magazines.” He looked around the room. “And we plan to publish them in a book someday. Then we’ll see who is more popular.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Cates will be the first to stock an anthology of Benson Dalton Gable mysteries,” Ms. Spark said to Alex before she turned to us. “You’re probably anxious to start work. I’m sure you didn’t come here to listen to a debate about literature. There are several things that need to be done. I need someone to check in books. We don’t have the computer system completely up and running yet, though I’m hopeful that the electricians will finish the wiring today and we can go on-line soon. Still, Larry wants to know if we’re receiving all the books he ordered, and the only way to do that is to check against the invoices.”

  “I’ll do that,” Mal said.

  “It will probably take two people. Larry has a room in the back that’s set up for receiving books. There’s a big table you can spread them out on. After the books are checked in, you can transfer them to carts.”

  “I’ll help Mal,” Kristy offered.

  “Great. Mary Anne, Logan, do you like to paint?”

  “That sounds good,” said Logan.

  I nodded.

  “Okay, see the new drywall along that side of the room?” She pointed to a wall that had been replaced. The gray of the drywall (or what I guessed was drywall) was marked with white lines and spots. “We need to paint over it with a coat of primer to ready it for the final paint job. Then we’re going to cover it up with shelves, of course, but that’s the way it goes.

  “Let’s find you some old shirts to protect your clothes, then fix you up with brushes.” She handed us shirts already spotted with paint. I slipped mine on and rolled up the sleeves. Next, she gave us paintbrushes and primer.

  Logan and I studied the wall we were to “prime.” A brick fireplace with a carved mantel was in the middle of the wall. It was a nice touch for the store, but I sure didn’t want to drip paint on it.

  “I’ll show Mal and Kristy what to do, then I’ll come back and see if you need anything else,” said Ms. Spark.

  “Do you have some plastic we could spread over the fireplace and on the floor?” Logan asked.

  “Of course! I forgot. It’s in the back room. I’ll show you where.”

  “I could go with you and bring it back,” said Alex. “I’m not doing anything anyway.”

  “Thanks, that would help,” said Ms. Spark.

  “That fireplace and mantel are original to the house. I’d hate to see them spotted with paint,” Alex added.

  Logan and I exchanged looks. Logan opened a gallon container of the primer and stirred it with a long wooden paddle.

  “I’ll find the plastic,” I finally said when Alex didn’t return.

  The door to Mr. Cates’s office was open a crack. I could hear his voice and that of another man talking and laughing. Continuing down the hall, I glanced into the room Benson Dalton Gable had once used as an office, then across the hall into the long, narrow room where Ms. Spark was giving Mal and Kristy instructions on how to check in books.

  “Did you give Alex the plastic?” I asked.

  “I told him where to find it,” said Ms. Spark, a frown flickering across her face. “Didn’t he bring it to you?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “It’s on the porch off the kitchen. We’ve been using that area to store some of the supplies.”

  “Thanks. I’ll find it.” I stepped into the kitchen from the hallway, and Alex entered from the basement at the same moment. I stopped abruptly and the surprise I felt at seeing him there instead of on the porch — and without the plastic — must have shown on my face. He immediately began to explain.

  “I love this house,” Alex said. “I’ve spent a lot of time here. The guys working in the basement are guys I know, and I wanted to say hi.” He stuck his head inside a portion of the kitchen wall that had been torn away but was not finished yet. Electrical wires were sticking out of the opening.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  He started and turned quickly. “Interesting to see what’s at the heart of an old house, isn’t it?”

  I shrugged. I didn’t know many high school boys who cared as much about old houses and literature as Alex. And, all of a sudden, he’d decided to be friendly. Earlier, he had barely noticed us.

  “This is a sound building, even if it has run down some in the past few years,” said Alex. “As the saying goes, they don’t build ’em like this anymore.”

  “I guess not.” I opened the door to the back porch.

  “Let me help you carry that to the front,” Alex offered.

  “Thanks,” I said. We gathered armfuls of plastic sheeting and carried it to the front of the store.

  Alex draped a piece over the fireplace, covering both mantel and hearth. Logan and I spread the remaining sheets over the floor. I felt a lot better about painting now.

  “Have you been upstairs since they’ve redone it?” Alex asked me.

  “I was helping Tom and Gillian, Mr. Cates’s children, unpack the last time I was here,” I said.

  “I sure would like to see what Mr. Cates has done up there. Do you think he’d mind?”

  “Ask him,” I answered.

  The front door opened and wind swept through, bringing dampness with it and ruffling the plastic we’d spread on the floor. We scrambled to keep it in place.

  “Hello,” a woman’s voice greeted us.

  The voice sounded slightly familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I looked up and saw the professor from Stoneybrook University who had visited our English class.

  “Ramona Kingsol
ver,” she said in her hurried voice. “For Mr. Cates.” Just as on the day she’d visited my class, she was dressed in a long skirt — this time a black-and-white print rather than solid black — and an oversized shirt. She even had on the same pendant she’d worn, a large gold four-leaf clover.

  I must not have reacted quickly enough, because she repeated, “I’m here to see Mr. Cates. He called me and asked me to come over.”

  “I’ll tell him,” I said. Logan continued to straighten the plastic while Alex helped.

  I knocked on the door to Mr. Cates’s office. “Enter!” he called.

  “There’s a woman here — Professor Kingsolver — who says you called her,” I said.

  “She’s here? Already?” Mr. Cates looked surprised. “That was quick.”

  “I told you she’s always been interested in the connection between Poe and Gable,” Mr. Gable said. “She can tell you a lot about what she thinks happened between them.”

  “Cillia will want to hear this too.” Mr. Cates pushed his chair away from his desk and stood up. “Mary Anne, will you please tell Ms. Spark that the professor is here? By the way, this is Mr. Gable. His family owned this house for years, until we bought it for the store.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. “Alex told us a little bit about Benson Dalton Gable already.”

  “He’s very interested in the man,” said Mr. Gable. “But then, it’s an interesting story.”

  I wondered what he meant. I hoped they would stay in the main room to talk to Professor Kingsolver. I wanted to hear everything. I started to follow Mr. Cates and Mr. Gable, then remembered that I was supposed to find Ms. Spark and ask her to join them.

  Mal and Kristy were absorbed in unpacking boxes and checking titles off a list. They looked up when I entered but didn’t even stop when I told Ms. Spark that Mr. Cates wanted her to join him in the front of the store.

  “Poe was approaching the end of his life and was despondent,” Professor Kingsolver was saying as Ms. Spark and I joined the group. Logan was on a ladder painting away near the ceiling. “He’d failed at business after business. His writing never reached the levels of popularity he’d hoped for. His personal life was a mess. From some mentions in correspondence I’ve seen, I gather he and Gable began to exchange letters about writing. Gable also had aspirations of starting a magazine and Poe, I think, looked at this idea as another chance of reaching his dream. Evidently, Gable was one of the people who did have a healthy respect for Poe’s work and Poe certainly basked in that, since it was rare enough.” When Professor Kingsolver talked about Poe, she changed. She stood taller, her face lit up, and her voice sounded almost musical.

  I picked up my paintbrush and worked on the lower part of the wall, leaving the high space to Logan.

  “I’m not sure you’re entirely right about that,” said Alex.

  Everyone turned to look at him. I couldn’t imagine someone who was a student in high school challenging a college professor!

  “Gable was a renowned mystery writer himself. Why do you assume that he started the relationship by worshipping Poe?” Alex asked.

  “I don’t think I said worship,” Professor Kingsolver said. “I said respect.”

  “Perhaps Poe admired Gable,” Alex said.

  “He may have. In fact, I would say that their relationship probably was one of mutual respect.”

  Alex shook his head. “I think Poe knew that Gable was a far superior writer and was jealous of him. I think Poe started the correspondence, hoping to benefit from Gable’s advice. And when Gable’s work grew more popular than his, Poe began to resent him. Poe even stole ideas from Gable.” Alex marched over to the fireplace, ducking under the ladder, and swept the plastic aside. I backed away. “Come here,” he said.

  Professor Kingsolver carefully skirted the ladder. She put one hand on her hip and shook her finger at Alex. “You should never walk under a ladder. Don’t you know it’s bad luck?” Then she laughed nervously as she patted the four-leaf clover pendant.

  “Alex, I’m not sure Professor Kingsolver wants to listen to your theories about Poe and Gable,” said his father.

  “No, please. I’m interested in any insights as to the relationship between these two men,” said the professor. “We don’t have any substantive information about it, and I’m always looking for evidence of what it was. For example, I have often thought that Gable may have acted as an editor on some of Poe’s manuscripts, but I can’t find any solid evidence that they had this type of relationship.”

  Alex pointed at the carving on the fireplace. “Look here. Clearly, this is where Poe received his inspiration for ‘The Raven.’ ”

  We crowded around, trying to look at what Alex was indicating. I let Professor Kingsolver and Mr. Cates see first, then Ms. Spark and I took their places. A series of ravens was carved into the mantel. I wasn’t quite sure that I followed Alex’s argument. Even if Poe had been inspired by the carvings to write “The Raven,” it wasn’t the same thing as stealing ideas.

  “The poem was published in 1845,” said Professor Kingsolver. “Poe may have known Gable then. But I’m quite sure that the poem had its genesis in more than a carving on a fireplace mantel,” she continued, echoing my thoughts.

  “Benson Dalton Gable mentions ravens in his work often,” said Alex. “I’ve read every word he’s ever written — every word we’ve been able to find. Poe was an idea thief. And what if Gable threatened to expose him? Poe had a penchant for writing about revenge and murder. Maybe it grew out of his own feelings.”

  “Alex, that’s enough. I think you’re going a little too far with that,” said Mr. Gable.

  What exactly did Alex mean about revenge and murder and Benson Dalton Gable? Did Poe take some sort of revenge on Gable? Or Gable on Poe? I didn’t remember reading or hearing anything like that.

  “That does go a little far,” Professor Kingsolver put in. “Poe was quite capable of coming up with such ideas from the depths of his tortured psyche. He was a very unhappy creature, as is evident in his work.”

  I felt a tickle around my ankles and looked down. Pluto was circling my legs, rubbing against my ankles. I reached down and gave him a pat on his head, and he moved on to Professor Kingsolver. As soon as he touched her ankle, she jumped back. Pluto darted between her feet and into the hallway.

  “A black cat! Mr. Cates, you must intend to make a success of this store, yet you’re asking for bad luck with that cat on the premises,” Professor Kingsolver said, once she’d regained her composure. Now she was grasping her pendant tightly, holding on as if for dear life.

  “That’s Pluto,” said Mr. Cates, a smile playing about his lips. “And he’s a part of the family — not always a willing part of the family, but loved anyway.”

  “I would never deliberately welcome a black cat into my home,” said Professor Kingsolver. “And as for your theory, young man,” she said, turning to Alex, “you have a good mind, but you seem to be fixated on the relative merits of the writing of Gable and Poe. It’s obvious that Poe is the superior talent. His work is revered still.”

  The voice Professor Kingsolver used here must have been the one she used with students in her classroom. I found myself doing a lot more than painting.

  “But do we know the extent of Gable’s work?” Alex challenged. “We know only what we’ve found. Perhaps someone destroyed the better part of it.”

  Professor Kingsolver shook her head.

  “This is quite interesting,” said Mr. Cates. “I had no idea there was any indication that Gable and Poe feuded.”

  “There isn’t,” Professor Kingsolver said quickly.

  “Only what we can suppose,” said Alex.

  “I think everyone has had enough of your theories for today,” Mr. Gable said to Alex. “I’m sure Mr. Cates and his crew need to get back to work.”

  I noticed that one of the workmen had come in while Professor Kingsolver and Alex were talking. He’d only installed one switch plate from an entire stac
k since he’d arrived. His ear was turned to the speakers and seemed to be listening to the conversation. In other words, he’d done as much work as I had.

  “Check our umbrellas and see if they’re dry yet,” Mr. Gable said to Alex.

  Alex opened the door and pulled in two of the umbrellas I’d seen resting on the porch. He dropped one on the floor and held the other in front of him, preparing to open it.

  “NO! Stop!” Professor Kingsolver grabbed the umbrella. “It’s bad luck to open an umbrella inside the house. You people are asking for it.”

  Professor Kingsolver was the most superstitious adult I’d ever met. The ladder, the black cat, the four-leaf clover, and now the umbrella. Where was the rabbit’s foot? I glanced at her purse. Her keys hung off a rabbit’s foot keychain hooked on the strap of her bag.

  I could tell that Logan wanted to laugh. His eyes were sparkling as he leaned over the can of primer, stirring again. Ms. Spark and Mr. Cates both looked as if they might burst out laughing any minute too.

  “I must go as well,” said Professor Kingsolver, “but be assured that I’d be glad to consult with you at any time about Poe. I’m delighted you’ve decided to locate your establishment in our town. If you ever need any advice about anything you might find, please call me.”

  “Thank you for coming by,” said Mr. Cates.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” said Ms. Spark.

  “I’ll call you when I have the rest of the papers,” Mr. Gable said to Mr. Cates. He held the door for Professor Kingsolver.

  “Work hard,” Alex said as he dashed into the rain.

  As soon as the door shut, Mr. Cates and Ms. Spark started laughing. Even the workman wore a grin.

  “She’s something else,” said Mr. Cates.

  “Poor Pluto! He’s in trouble whether he’s crabby or simply trying to be friendly,” said Ms. Spark.

  “But what they had to say about Poe and Gable was very interesting, don’t you think?” said Mr. Cates.

  “I don’t understand why Alex is so sure that Poe was jealous of Gable,” I said, my curiosity piqued.

  “I don’t quite either,” said Mr. Cates. “Perhaps he’s simply defending his ancestor. He’s certainly interested in the history surrounding him and Poe.”