The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library hb-3 Page 10

  “Well, the joke may be on both of us,” I replied. “He’s Brainert’s colleague, remember? Maybe Spinner’s gay, too.”

  Sadie grinned, patted my arm. “Have fun finding out.”

  I felt like a piece of undercooked meat being thrown to the lions. Clenching my fists, I walked through the archway to the events space. Only the emergency lights were glowing, so I paused (read: stalled) and turned on the ceiling lights.

  “Come on, Pen, hurry up!” Brainert called. “The door’s locked.”

  As the two men waited by the storeroom, I overheard Brainert reciting a blow-by-blow description of Rene Montour’s purchase earlier in the day.

  My keys to the storeroom were bundled with a halfdozen others on a long chain connected to my belt. It wasn’t very attractive, I have to admit—looked like something a building supervisor in a New York apartment house would wear on his tool belt. But Spencer gave the chain to me last Christmas, and I found it surprisingly efficient.

  While I fumbled for the right key, Brainert finished his story.

  “So, Pen,” he said, “any more interest in the books?”

  “Six calls this afternoon.”

  Brainert blinked. “If they all show up in person to pick up their books, then Finch Inn is going to be booked solid. You ought to get a kickback from Fiona.”

  “That’ll be the day.”

  I pushed the door open, flicked on the lights. Sadie had made the back room presentable in anticipation of Spinner’s arrival. She’d briefly opened the back door to let in some fresh air and placed the Phelps editions on the desk, which had been cleared—the laptop moved up front. She’d even arranged folding chairs around the desk.

  When Brainert saw the books, he smacked his lips as if he were anticipating a gourmet meal.

  “May I?” Professor Spinner asked, simultaneously meeting my gaze and gesturing to the volumes.

  “Of course.” I settled into a folding chair and watched him pick up Volume One. He slowly ran his hand down the spine and cover. I noticed his hands were nimble, his fingers long and elegant.

  Brainert cocked an eyebrow. “Interesting that these books are all bound so differently—”

  Spinner nodded. He was obviously observing just that.

  “—I mean, considering they’re supposed to be uniform editions.”

  “That’s because it took so long for Eugene Phelps to get the complete set out there,” Spinner noted, his eyes never leaving the book in his hand. “The man was editing and publishing the volumes, one at a time, over the span of decades. Poor Phelps set an impossible task for himself—it’s no wonder he failed.”

  “I don’t understand,” Brainert said, sinking into the chair next to me and crossing his legs. “There are dozens of editions of Poe. What’s so challenging about putting one together?”

  Spinner lifted a new book from the pile and stepped around the desk to face us, as if he were lecturing to a class. “There is, of course, no such thing as a complete Poe. Much of Poe’s journalism—his puzzles, anecdotes, contemporary observations, things of that nature—were written anonymously and lost in the reams of yellow journalism printed in Poe’s time. Phelps made a valiant effort to track down material he suspected had been written by Poe, but in the end many of the passages Phelps identified were discredited by more rigorous scholars and linguistic analysts who came later.”

  Spinner’s pedagogical tone didn’t bother me in the least. I’d heard it a hundred times—from Brainert. He went into lecture mode at nearly every meeting of the Quindicott Business Owners Association (or, as my aunt called it, the Quibble Over Anything Gang). What was fascinating to me was Brainert’s reaction. It was obvious from his fidgeting that he didn’t like the tables being turned. As far as my friend was concerned, he was the professor and everyone else was the potential student.

  On the other hand, these two were in the same department at St. Francis College, and I wondered if the specter of competition was rearing its ugly head.

  You talking ’bout me again, baby?

  “No, Jack. Another specter. Go back to sleep. I know this isn’t your thing.”

  Sister, you got that right. I thought those mooks you had traipsing through here, hawking their dime novels were wearing, but these chattering skulls deserve an award for most tedious discussion in half a century. I’m beginning to wish I’d caught lead poisoning in a hardware store.

  I noticed Spinner was now opening Volume Eight of the Phelps editions. This one was titled A Dream Within a Dream.

  “Unfortunately, much of Eugene Phelps’s lifework was dismissed in the years after his death,” Spinner continued. “One look at an index and it’s easy to see why. The contents are all over the place. Several poems and even a few stories appear in more than one volume, and the way the works are assembled is utterly arbitrary.” Spinner sighed and set the book down on the desk. “And of Phelps so called commentary—well, the less said, the better.”

  I cleared my throat, and almost raised my hand. Thank goodness I squelched the impulse. “But, Professor, these volumes have always been of interest to collectors. According to my aunt, their value has skyrocketed in the last seven or eight years. Do you know why that is?”

  “It’s this Poe Code nonsense,” Spinner declared. “It all dates back to an academic paper from a decade ago, written by Dr. Robert Conte, a professor of comparative literature at Mount Olive University in South Carolina. The good doctor stated that he’d discovered the hidden code buried in the Phelps edition, and he claimed to have deciphered it, too.”

  “Amazing!” Brainert leaned forward in his chair.

  Spinner shrugged. “If I recall, the puzzle had something to do with the words being out of order in the text of a poem or story. I really can’t recall the specific details. But Dr. Conte was only the first to make such a claim. In the years since his treatise was published, other scholars chimed in with their own pet theories, and the legend of the Poe Code was sustained.”

  Brainert raised a finger. “You say the legend was ‘sustained.’ An interesting choice of words.”

  “Phelps himself claimed there was a code, but he probably said that in a bid to sell more books,” Spinner replied. “Of course, the idea of a secret code is certainly intriguing. Why, even I was drawn to the lure of a Poe Code, once upon a time.” Spinner chuckled at the memory. “When I was a first-year graduate student, I thought about making the Phelps editions the subject of my own doctoral dissertation.”

  Brainert nodded. “Sounds great, why not?”

  Spinner shook his head. “I realized that such a study would be a waste of my valuable time. I came to the sensible conclusion that there are more important American authors worthy of study. Literary diversions like the Poe Code are excellent fodder for less-serious academics like Dr. Conte, a scholar who prefers the works of American Gothicists like Poe, Hawthorne, and H. P. Lovecraft, over more serious, ambitious, and important American authors—novelists like Kerouac. Poets like Alan Ginsberg.”

  Though my friend did not react, I knew Spinner’s words had stung Brainert. Not only did he admire the works of Poe and Hawthorne, Brainert also claimed to be distantly related to H. P. Lovecraft, the New England recluse whose horror fiction has begun to rival Poe’s in popularity with the public and even certain scholars. And as I recalled, Brainert was rather disdainful of Kerouac and Ginsberg.

  I suspected Nelson Spinner was aware of this.

  Brainert shifted in his chair. “So you don’t believe there is a Poe Code? It’s all a myth?”

  “What’s all a myth?” Sadie asked, finally showing up.

  “This Poe Code nonsense,” Spinner informed her.

  Sadie looked to Brainert. He frowned and gestured back to Spinner.

  “Eugene Phelps was a New England eccentric. That’s all,” Spinner said. “Follow the logic, and you’ll come to the same conclusion I did. Just ask yourself these questions: If Phelps really possessed some mysterious treasure, why did he go bankrupt? A
nd why would he blow his brains out if he wasn’t flat broke?”

  I nearly spoke up then. Maybe money wasn’t the reason for Eugene Phelps’s suicide, I wanted to say, recalling my own husband’s descent—not into the maelstrom but into a concrete sidewalk.

  Calvin and I never struggled financially. His family was so wealthy that we never wanted for money. Yet my husband chose to kill himself, right in front of me, driven by personal demons I could do nothing to stop…or, at the time, even really comprehend.

  I wanted to say those things, but of course I kept silent. Some thoughts are too personal to share with a perfect stranger—or even a close friend like Brainert.

  But not me, right, sweetheart?

  “Right, Jack…not you.”

  This is a real yawnfest you’ve got going here, you know?

  “It could have been earth-shattering,” I silently pointed out, “if the Poe Code was real.”

  But Blondie claims it’s not. Too bad, looks like he just burst Bow Tie Boy’s bubble.

  “What a shame,” Brainert said.

  He looked crestfallen. Clearly, he had hoped for better news.

  Nelson Spinner glanced at his watch. “Well, this has been very pleasant. But I really do have to go. I have a long evening, papers to grade, you know.” He faced Brainert. “Can I give you a lift back to the campus, Parker?”

  “No thanks,” Brainert replied. “I’m heading over to the theater. I’ll catch a ride home from Ronny Sutter.”

  “Still hoping to resuscitate that old Movie Town Theater, eh?” Spinner asked.

  “It’s been a financial struggle, but we’re almost there,” Brainert replied. “And since Ronny’s donating some of his time, the construction work has progressed much faster.”

  Brainert had obviously told Spinner about his pet project. He and three other partners (including a film studies professor at St. Francis and an elderly retired screen actress who’d moved back to New England) had purchased the broken-down movie theater in Quindicott in hopes of reopening it and showing classic old films. Brainert gave Spinner an update on the restoration work as Sadie and I escorted them to the front door.

  “A shame you have to go,” Sadie said. “Please feel free to come back soon, Professor Spinner. I don’t know how much longer the Phelps editions will be here, but I’m sure Penelope would be very glad to show you the store, perhaps escort you around town.”

  I stiffened with embarrassment at the obvious sell job. My lord, I thought, is this how Spencer feels when I go into Mother Mode?

  To Nelson Spinner’s credit, he smiled warmly, took my hand, and held it. “Yes. Thank you for the invitation…. Do you have a card?”

  “I uh…”

  “No,” said Brainert rather pointedly. “She doesn’t.”

  Sadie glared. “Of course, she does.”

  My aunt came ready to play, all right. She yanked on a drawer in her old desk and handed over one of the store’s new business cards.

  “Thanks,” Nelson said, tucking it safely into an inside jacket pocket. Then he pulled out a thin leather wallet and one of his own business cards. It was quite something, gold embossed lettering on an electric blue background—the exact shade of his dress shirt and piercing cobalt eyes.

  “I’ll be in touch soon then, Penelope. I know I’ll enjoy talking with you again. Good night.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The Sleeper

  Oh, lady dear, hast though no fear?

  Why and what art thou dreaming here?

  —Edgar Allan Poe, “The Sleeper,” 1831

  I WOULDN’T EXPECT much from Spinner, doll.

  “Excuse me?”

  Alvins like him have low libidos.

  “What!”

  You heard me.

  I’d been lying in bed, considering Nelson Spinner when Jack rudely broke into my thoughts (not exactly an uncommon occurrence).

  “Well,” I replied, “Sadie seems to think he’s hot stuff. She’s never pushed me that hard before.”

  She’s past her prime.

  “So are you, Jack. Way past.”

  I turned over, stared out the dark window. There was no wind tonight and the bare tree limbs looked painted on the glass, a gloomy still life.

  “I can’t deny Spinner is a charming professor.” I murmured. “What woman wouldn’t think he was attractive with that mop of golden hair and those incredible eyes…” That’s when it hit me. “Jeez-Louise, why didn’t I see it sooner?”

  See what?

  “Sadie described her memories of Peter Chesley in exactly the same way—when they first met, I mean—a charming professor with golden hair and spectacular blue eyes.”

  Sorry, doll. You’re making tracks, but I’m not following.

  “I don’t think Sadie pushed so hard tonight just because she wants me to have a second chance.”

  Oh…I get it. You and Spinner are the sentimental stand-ins for her and Chesley.

  “It’s probably natural to want to replay a pattern from your past, try to make things right that went wrong before…”

  Yeah, baby…I got my own version of that little notion.

  “What?” I asked through a yawn. “Tell me.”

  No, baby…I’d rather show you…remember that missing persons case?

  I yawned again. “Sure.”

  Well, it’s time to trail a new lead…

  New York City

  October 21, 1946

  Her eyes were brownish-green like a couple of olives left to drown at the bottom of a dry martini. Jack had slipped onto the barstool next to her, watched her down the dregs of gin and vermouth.

  When Jack had interviewed Miss Mindy Corbett at her desk this morning, she’d been bright and chipper as the daily funnies, her short, honey-colored curls prim and neat, her features on the young side of thirty. At the end of this very long day, however, not even the dim light of the slick hotel bar could save her eyes from looking bloodshot, her skin from appearing sallow. Even her hair looked tired of curling.

  She ignored him until he flagged the bartender, bought her a refill.

  “I know you,” she said, a little too loudly. Then she shushed herself, bringing her voice down before Jack had to advise it. “You’re that gumshoe who’s looking for Mr. Tattershawe.”

  “That’s right, honey.” Jack tapped a fresh deck of Luckies against two fingers, passed her one. “Remarkable memory you have.”

  “What are you, a comedian? You were just in the office earlier today.”

  Jack lit her ciggy, then his own. “How about that? Small world, seeing you again.”

  The bartender approached with a silver shaker. “Here you go, Miss Corbett.” Into her old glass, he poured a fresh crystal stream. He put a new glass in front of Jack and filled it.

  Mindy lifted her drink, admired the shimmer of alcohol in her hand like a jewel in the crown. “Oh, yeah, Bobby,” she told the bartender, “that’s the ticket.”

  Jack took a drink of the icy liquid, savored the juniper burn. He wondered how much tonsil paint it would take to pry loose Mindy Corbett’s tongue.

  In Jack’s short time investigating Vincent Tattershawe, he found the man’s friends to be supremely aloof. They knew little of Tattershawe’s personal business. His family consisted of one married sister living out west who corresponded with him mainly through letters. She hadn’t heard from him in over a month.

  Mindy here was Jack’s best lead. She worked at Carter & Thompson, an investment company on lower Broadway, near the exchanges and the docks. Before Tattershawe disappeared, she’d been assigned as his secretary.

  When Jack questioned her this morning, she’d been polite but curt, claiming she worked for someone new at the firm now and didn’t know anything about Mr. Tattershawe’s disappearance. But—

  She’d slipped up during questioning.

  She’d admitted knowing Tattershawe before the war. She’d worked as his secretary for four years. And after he’d exchanged his business suit for a G.I. uni
form, she’d stayed with the firm, working for another boss. Then Tattershawe returned last year from the front with half an arm missing, and she went right back to serving as his secretary again.

  That kind of pattern spoke of loyalty, and Jack didn’t believe Mindy had no insights into Vincent’s abrupt disappearance.

  “So was Tattershawe a jerk to work for?” Jack asked, hoping to provoke some more leads out of her. “Are you glad he’s gone?”

  Mindy put down her new drink, swiveled to face him. “You think I’m stupid?”

  “No.”

  “I know why you’re here, feeding me juice. Don’t think I don’t.”

  “It’s no secret, Miss Corbett. I told you yesterday, I’m looking for Vincent Tattershawe.”

  “So go talk to his boss.”

  “I did.”

  Tattershawe’s supervisor was Ed Thompson. Heavyset, bald, and harried, he’d claimed he knew nothing of Vincent’s unscheduled three-week vacation. After trying to contact him for ten days, he’d written the man off and reassigned his clients.

  The client list was private, Jack was told, and nobody else he spoke to at the company claimed they knew anything. Jack wasn’t getting anywhere through the front door. So he decided to try the back, trailing Mindy’s shapely tan suit and tawny pumps to the bar after she got off work for the evening.

  But the dame wasn’t an easy safe to crack.

  “I’m not supposed to talk about him,” she insisted, then swiveled toward the bar again, showing Jack her profile as she picked up her drink.

  Jack leaned close to her ear, lowered his voice for a raspy promise. “Nobody has to know, sweetheart.”

  “Is that right?” She fumbled with the lit cigarette, tapping too hard to get the stray ash off. “Damn. It’s gone out. Heat me up again, will you?”

  Jack struck another match, pulled the flame close to his body, made her lean in. She was really flying now and seemed to enjoy the little tease, following the fire wherever it went. He touched her hand to steady it as he let the blaze reignite the tobacco.