The Ghost and Mrs. McClure (11 page)

“Witness . . . yes,” Howie continued. “And the whole thing unfolding in front of his daughter and son-in-law. They were right here attending the talk, right? Were they close to Mr. Brennan when he . . . was stricken?”

I wasn’t surprised by his questions. But with autopsy results still pending and Brennan’s family still in Quindicott, I felt it was the proper thing to duck any touchy questions—just as I’d ducked them with the television interviews earlier in the day.

Television . . . my mind considered the fact that a few of those interviews had already aired. I suddenly wondered if that was why Howie was here. Had he seen one of those interviews and—noting the lack of details—decided to come by himself and try his hand at prying them loose? Well, I couldn’t blame the guy for trying, I decided. But still, I held firm:

“Many people attended last night’s event,” I told him. “And many people rushed to Mr. Brennan’s aid. I think it’s best if you ask Mr. Brennan’s family these questions. They’re staying right here in town, at Finch’s Inn. It’s on the eastern edge of town, on the pond. Well, we call it a pond, but it’s really a small lake at the end of a coastal inlet.”

“Of course,” Howie Westwood replied. Though the smile was still plastered on his face, behind his little round glasses I saw a cold curtain draw down across the man’s green eyes.

“Could you show me around?” he said, his charm returning, a little more forced this time.

“Sure,” I said.

After all, like
Publishers Weekly, Independent Bookseller
was a respected magazine in the industry of bookselling, especially for its often-quoted review section. Its circulation had fallen off in the past decade, of course, with the closing of so many independent bookstores—due to the gross sales dollars of the book business being hijacked by the chain stores (and I’m not just talking Borders and Barnes & Noble, but also places such as Costco, Wal-Mart, and Sam’s Club, where you could toss your Grisham in a cart with your economy crates of grapefruit and galoshes).

In any event, I wanted to be cooperative. An article in
Independent Bookseller
would be lovely for Buy the Book. It would influence publicists to put our store on their “A list” author tours, and it might even get Sadie and me invited to some of those boffo celebrity book parties thrown by big publishers at next May’s BEA (BookExpo America, that is, the nation’s largest trade show for publishers and booksellers).

I showed Howie the store, talked about the strategy for moving inventory, the customer base, the Shaker rockers, the renovations—everything and anything except the traumatic events of the night before. He took notes by way of a small tape recorder.

Each time he broached the subject of my opinion of Timothy Brennan and his family and the play-by-play of his death the night before—and there were more than a few times when he did—I answered by being as politely vague as possible (I lived with my prying in-laws long enough to become familiar with that sort of lingual dexterity).

Finally we reached the community events space, right near the podium Timothy Brennan was standing behind when he collapsed. Howie Westwood again pressed me for details about the incident. He couldn’t miss the tone of impatience I now had in my voice as I replied,

“Look, why don’t you interview Shelby Cabot? She was the woman in charge of the publicity tour for Salient House and—”

“Penelope,
come on
. She’s Salient House’s spokesperson.” He stared at me.

“Yes. Meaning?”

“Meaning her mouth is programmed to speak only in empty corporate syllables. She’s never going to give me any real details—the sort of details that will make the article on your bookstore worth reading, if you catch my meaning.”

“Oh, I catch your meaning.” I folded my arms. “Sorry, Charlie.”

“The name’s Howie.”

“Yes. I know.”

He blinked, his smile disappearing. Then, smoothly, it reappeared. “You’re sure a tough one, Penelope, I’ll give you that. Okay, then, I’ll look her up.”

His charm was still there, but his polish was dimming, and I began to wonder if he wasn’t some other kind of reporter—like maybe from a supermarket tabloid. I nearly shuddered as a headline flashed through my mind: CURSED BOOKSTORE PROVOKES FAMOUS AUTHOR’S DEATH. ARE MORE IN STORE?

“I had better get back to the register,” I said after an awkward pause.

“Of course,” Howie said, nodding. “I’ll just take a few notes about the look of the room if that’s okay.”

“Yes, of course,” I said. Then I raced to the front counter.

“Whoa, honey, where’s the fire?” said Aunt Sadie.

“What happened?” asked Linda. “Did he ask you out to dinner? Do you want to check your makeup?”

“No, no, no, for heaven’s sake!” I cried, bending under the counter to search the shelves. “Where is it?! Where is it?!”

“Where’s what?” the two women chorused.

“HERE!”

I snatched up my latest copy of
Independent Bookseller
, which I always kept alphabetically above issues of
Kirkus, Library Journal
, select printouts of an inner-circle e-newsletter called
Publishers Lunch
, and
Publishers Weekly
.

“Where’d you leave lover boy?” asked Sadie.

“In the events room,” I said. “And don’t call him that!”

“What are you looking for?” asked Linda as I flipped the front pages of the magazine until I reached the masthead.

My finger followed the small print down to the names of the staff writers. “Ohmygod, it really is him.”

“Him who?” asked Linda. “Lover boy?

I shot her an unhappy look and pointed to the magazine page. Sure enough, the name was there: Howie Westwood, Senior Editor.

“What’s the matter?” asked Sadie.

“I thought he was lying—that he was from a supermarket tabloid or something.”

“Did you blow it?” asked Linda.

“I think so,” I said. I hadn’t played ball. I’d been mildly hostile. And he’d implied some pretty caustic things about the store’s connection to the Brennan death. That was sure to reflect itself in the tone he used to write about the store.

“It’s not too late,” said Linda. “Invite him out tonight.”

“No!”

“Don’t be foolish,” said Sadie. “You deserve some fun. And the man obviously likes you.”

“You think?” I said. A pathetic equivocation.

“For sure,” said Linda. “And he’s a cutey. Go get him.”

“It’s really not like that,” I insisted. “It’s just business.”

Right, I thought. Who are you kidding? Certainly not them.

I put down the magazine and headed down the aisle. Along the way, I ran a hand through my copper tangles, adjusted my black-framed glasses, and straightened my loose white blouse.

Okay, there were things about Westwood that seemed a little too slick, a little too smooth, but it had been a long time since my late husband and I had . . . well,
connected
. . . on any level. At least Westwood reported on the book business, so we had something to talk about. And Sadie and Linda seemed to think he liked me. Maybe offering to show him around town wouldn’t be too forward.

I was barely able to catch him at the front door. “Mr. Westwood?”

“Oh, uh, Mrs. McClure. Thank you for your time.”

“No problem. I just wanted to tell you that I really do think Shelby Cabot will be helpful for your story,” I said, trying to make up for my earlier frostiness. “She’s staying at Finch’s Inn, too, with the Brennan family, and she can probably even get you the names of those two young cameramen.”

“Cameramen?” Howie Westwood’s eyes widened behind his little round glasses.

“Yes,” I said. “Two young men taped the whole event for C-SPAN. Didn’t you know that?”

Howie Westwood paled. “
Nobody
knows that. At least, I haven’t seen it reported.”

“Anyway, before you go, I was wondering . . .”

“Yes?”

Ask him, ask him, ask him!
I railed at myself.
Come on, Pen, don’t be such a wuss.

“Would you like me to show you around town?” I asked, my voice betraying me with a slight flirtatious lilt. “I mean, I thought the background could help your article about our store . . . maybe we could even get a cup of coffee or dinner. . . .”

The transparent reaction flashed across his features in a matter of seconds. It started out as a sour sort of squint of discomfort, then it softened into a kind of pained pity, then it hardened again, into a mask with a shallow, toothy grin and a chilly green stare.

I wanted to crawl into a hole right then and there.

He didn’t come right out and say, “You’ve got to be kidding. Me and
you?
” It was more like, “Oh, sure . . .
maybe
in a few days I
might
take you up on that,” and then he lunged for the door.

Yes, a deep, dark hole. That’s what I needed right now. Put me in. Cover me up.

The only thing that
might
keep me out was turning around to find Sadie and Linda
not
eavesdropping.

Slowly, I turned. Then exhaled with relief. They were both chatting and laughing with an elderly male customer, completely oblivious to my naked embarrassment.

“Thank goodness,” I murmured.

About the only thing worse than being utterly and completely rejected was having someone else witness it.

“Oh, no. Not you.”

Yes, me.
The Jack Shepard voice was deep and rough and loud in my head.

“You’re not real,” I silently told it. “And I’m not listening.”

“Get lost. I mean it!”

I was in no mood to talk to Jack’s voice, but he was loud and insistent—and, even though I knew he wasn’t real, his invasion of my privacy felt real enough. Frankly, I was indignant.

“And what makes you think so?”

“What about him?”

“How do you know that?”

“Shows what you know. Or what you don’t. He’s a magazine writer. His name’s listed in the
Independent Bookseller
staff box.”

“What contradictions?”

“He could have been a
fit
bookworm,” Penelope said. “He did have glasses, which is common among people who make their living reading.”

“Fake?”

“But . . .”

“Those little round frames give a man a certain look,” I silently said. “He might be wearing them as a fashion statement.”

“Maybe they didn’t in your time. But they do now. Oh, why am I speaking to you as if you’re really the ghost of Jack Shepard?!! You’re just a voice. A stupid, silly voice in my head.”

“He’s not my Howie—”

“Nothing. Just like you.”

“Excuse me, but if you insist on speaking, would you mind speaking English?”

“I most certainly was not!”

“What?!”

Penelope sighed. “I wasn’t attracted. Not really. I just wondered—”

Penelope couldn’t believe a mere delusion was making her flush scarlet. “Must you be so vulgar?”

“They’re not all that way. People can be good. And fair. And courageous and selfless. My mother was. My father was . . . for a while, before my mother died. And my aunt definitely is—and so are the good people of this town.”