The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library hb-3 Read online

  “You’re an attractive woman, Mindy.”

  She laughed, raising an eyebrow as he held her gaze. “Don’t buffalo me, shamus.”

  Jack let the moment hang as she surveyed his broad shoulders tapering down to lean hips; his square jaw, shaved clean; the dagger-shaped scar, promising a hint of danger.

  He blew out the match. “Were you ever more than Tattershawe’s secretary?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  The unthinking admission alarmed her. She swiveled away to face the bar again, took a long quaff of martini—as if that would make it all better.

  Jack leaned back, didn’t press. Now that the cat was out of the bag, he knew she’d spill the rest of the litter. He could see she was dying to. All he had to do was wait.

  Mindy drained her glass. He watched her fish the gin-soaked olive out, put it between her small white teeth and squeeze it slowly, savoring those last drops of alcohol.

  Cripes, he thought, if Tattershawe had a drinking problem, then he wasn’t drinking alone.

  “I need another drink, shamus. You buying?”

  “The name’s Jack.” He waved the bartender over and the crystal fountain flowed anew.

  “You want to go somewhere more private?” Mindy asked after she’d finished another.

  “Sure,” Jack said. “What did you have in mind?”

  “This is a hotel. We could get a room.”

  Jack didn’t surprise easily, but Miss Corbett rendered him momentarily speechless.

  “To talk privately, I mean,” she added in a whisper. “See, the truth is, I care about Vincent, and I think he might be in a jam.”

  “WHEN VINNY CAME back from Europe, he took his old job back at the firm, and Ed Thompson let me work for him again. We all pretended like his arm didn’t matter, that he wasn’t a cripple, and I thought things would go back to the way they were.”

  Mindy was standing by the hotel room’s window, looking out on the sensational view of a movie house’s dingy brick wall.

  Jack’s view was better. Twilight had set in and Mindy Corbett’s hourglass form was nicely outlined against the darkening windowpane, her snug-fitting suit an affecting distraction.

  “Go back to the way they were?” Jack repeated, loosening his tie. He was sitting in the room’s only chair—an upholstered number with overstuffed arms. “But not just in the office, right? Out of the office, too.”

  Mindy turned to face Jack, leaned her bountiful hips back against the window frame. “Sure, Vinny and me, we always used to have good times together.”

  “You mean you always drank together.”

  “That’s right. It was fun.”

  “But the fun times stopped?”

  “We tried to go back to the way it was, but Vinny couldn’t. He was so unhappy after he came back from the war. It’s hard to explain.”

  “You don’t have to, honey. I follow. The war changed a lot of men.”

  “So Vinny met this Dorothy woman at a New Year’s Eve party, and they hit it off. She’s a teetotaler, but…” Mindy shrugged. “That’s what he preferred, so what’s a girl to do?”

  “What is a girl to do? You tell me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, are you sure you weren’t angry about Vincent getting engaged to another woman?” Jack wondered for a minute whether Mindy was truly an innocent, or had she made Vinny disappear?

  “No. I swear. I wanted Vinny to be happy. And he sure wasn’t happy with me. And if a guy’s not happy, it doesn’t take long before he makes a girl miserable.”

  “I get the picture.”

  “But Vinny and I were still good during working hours, so I stayed as his secretary. He was a real swell boss, too—polite, civil. He never ordered me around or barked like a jerk. He always asked like a gentleman. Then I came in one day, and he didn’t. And the next day came and went, and the next…”

  “And before you know it, your life’s over,” Jack muttered.

  “Huh?”

  “Sorry, sweetheart, my mind wandered. A little too much gin.” It was amazing how well this tomato held her liquor. She was a real boozehound, all right. “Tell me now,” Jack said. “Why do you think he left?”

  “I’m sure it had to do with the way the business changed since the war.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean…”

  Jack watched Mindy’s careless expression begin to change. Her relaxed posture appeared to stiffen, and she began to chew her lower lip.

  “What is it, honey? You can tell me. I’ll never repeat what came from that pretty mouth of yours.”

  Mindy turned around, faced the window again even though there was nothing in front of her. Darkness had fully descended and the alley she overlooked was black as a coffin.

  Jack sat very still. “Remember, you’re helping Vincent now, sweetheart. Tell me what you know.”

  Jack waited for her to decide, and she slowly began to spill.

  “Vinny…he was used to doing things on the up-and-up, square investment products for square Johns and Janes, you know? But…that’s not how the new management operates.”

  She went on to explain how the firm had fallen on hard times during the war years and had been taken over by silent partners. Carter & Thompson’s old, long-standing clients were still set up with good stocks and investment portfolios. It was the best front imaginable for gaining the confidence of new clients.

  But for every legit client Vincent and his colleagues managed, there were two or three suckers, set up with shell investment schemes. The scheme would appear to pay off for a while, but the phony venture would soon collapse, netting the firm a hefty profit.

  The swindled clients would move on, but the firm would find new rubes, usually uptown types, society ladies, and war widows, brought in through the new silent partners and reassured via the old, long-standing network of legit clients.

  “And who are these silent partners?” Jack asked.

  “I don’t know. But I think I know where you can find at least one of them.”

  “Tell me.”

  “There’s an awful lot of packages going back and forth to a place you wouldn’t expect.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, the address isn’t a law office, a bank, or a residence. It’s a warehouse, way over on the West Side docks, near Hell’s Kitchen.”

  “Mindy, this is very important. Do you remember the exact address?”

  Mindy laughed, her tense posture finally relaxing. “I’ve sent so many packages there, it’s practically tattooed to my brain.”

  Jack wrote the address on his notepad.

  Mindy’s whole demeanor seemed a thousand times lighter. Sometimes, a confession will do that for a person. She strode over to the bed and flopped down on the mattress, crossed her shapely legs.

  “When Vinny cut out the way he did, boy oh boy, Ed Thompson really started to panic! There were files missing, and other things, too.”

  “What other things?”

  “Funny as it seems…a picture on my desk. It was a photo he’d given me before the war.”

  Jack rose from the armchair, dipped a hand in his pocket. “Not this one?” He brought out the small oval-framed photo, walked to the bed, sat next to her on the mattress.

  “Omigosh! Where did you find that!”

  “Dorothy Kerns gave it to me. Apparently, Vincent sent this to her right before he disappeared.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sending the photo in the first place seemed odd to Jack, but sending one that was out of date and belonged to another woman was odder still. He couldn’t figure it unless Vincent Tattershawe was truly a heel, sending Dorothy a gesture of trumped-up sentiment to throw off her scent while he went on the lam with her money.

  “Can I have that picture back?” Mindy asked, reaching for it.

  Jack gently pulled it beyond her grasp. “Sorry, Miss Corbett. I can’t.”

  Sh
e slumped again, letting out a sad sigh.

  “Listen, Mindy, you’ve been a big help. But there’s one more thing. Do you know anything about Ogden Heating and Cooling?”

  Mindy repeated the name with a puzzled look.

  “It’s an air conditioner manufacturing company,” Jack explained. “Do you think it could be one of your firm’s phony investment schemes?”

  “I’ve never heard of it, and believe me, I know the list of fake companies like the back of my hand.”

  Jack nodded. “Well, listen, baby, I guess that’s about all I need from you.”

  He pushed off the bed, rising to his feet. “Tell you what…when I find Vincent Tattershawe, and I fully expect to, I’ll ask him to get you another photo, maybe a more recent one.”

  Mindy stood too, gave Jack a sad smile. “I don’t want a more recent one. I liked looking at the older picture. It reminded me of the old times, know what I mean?”

  Jack nodded, slipped the photo back into his pocket. “I know.”

  Mindy stepped closer, gazed up at him with big olive soaked eyes. “That’s nice of you, anyway, to try replacing my photo.”

  Jack smelled the alcohol, but his real drink was perfume, and hers hadn’t worn off yet; it was still there, light and sweet.

  “You’re really thoughtful, Jack. You remind me of Vinny in some ways…what I mean is, you seem like a really nice guy…”

  “I’m not.”

  “But I bet you could be…for a little while, right?”

  “I could be.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, Jack woke up in the hotel bed. Mindy was gone and he wasn’t surprised. He figured she was already regretting her decision to talk, but he planned on looking her up again anyway—after this case was closed.

  He showered, shaved, dressed, and headed downstairs to find two police cruisers parked on the street near the alley between the hotel and the movie house.

  Jack still knew cops from his days in the department. He tossed a short nod to Jimmy Martin, a middle-aged sergeant he’d worked with as a rookie.

  “Hey, Jimmy, what’s the news?”

  “Mugging and murder, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Who’s the victim?”

  “Young lady. Nice-lookin’ one too.”

  Jack stiffened. “Young lady?”

  “Yeah, too young to end up shot to death. Looks like they roughed her up before they killed her. Think you can identify her?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Take a look, then.”

  Jack stepped into the alley, pushed through the wall of uniforms, and felt his stomach drop. Left in a heap next to the garbage cans was Mindy Corbett, shot through the heart.

  CHAPTER 12

  Remains of the Day

  His smile was stiff as a frozen fish.

  —Raymond Chandler, Farewell, My Lovely, 1940

  JACK’S DREAM, WHICH ended more like a nightmare, should have prepared me for what was coming the next day. It didn’t.

  Tuesday morning began like any other, apart from my postdream disorientation. I crawled out of bed as soon as the alarm went off, not sure if I was in Jack’s century or mine. But after a cup of coffee, I managed to shower, dress, dry my hair, and stop wondering what Jack was going to do next to find his missing person, and whether he felt guilty about Mindy’s fate.

  All the while I was thinking about this stuff, I expected Jack to break into my thoughts and answer me. But he never did.

  Anticipating my meeting with Mrs. McConnell, Spencer’s principal, I chose a suitably matronly, nonthreatening outfit from my closet—a long, gray wool skirt, black low-heeled boots, and an oversized black turtleneck. Vaguely aware that my outfit would have raised absolutely no eyebrows in the 1940s, as well as today, I went to wake my son.

  To my surprise, Spencer’s bedroom was empty, save for our snoozing marmalade-striped cat, Bookmark, which Sadie had given to Spencer as a kitten on the day we’d moved in.

  The bathroom all three of us shared was also vacant, so I hunted through the apartment. The television was quiet, but I checked the living room anyway. Empty. The dining room was empty, too. I finally found Spencer in the kitchen. He was standing at the sink, washing out his cereal bowl, his back turned to me. It was more than a half hour before the school bus arrived, but he was already dressed and ready for class.

  “Up early, aren’t you?”

  Spencer jumped, startled, then reddened with guilt. I spied his backpack on the counter, his bicycle helmet sitting next to it. I tumbled onto his scheme immediately. He’d almost made it, too. If Spencer had skipped breakfast, he would have outfoxed me.

  “You are not riding your bike to school,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because avoiding the bus is not the way to solve this problem.”

  The bowl clattered—too loudly—in the drying tray. Spencer tossed his still-damp spoon into the silverware bin.

  “Get ready to go. I’m driving you.”

  Spencer rolled his eyes and yanked his backpack off the counter. I could tell by his expression that he was sorry I hadn’t changed my mind about seeing Mrs. McConnell to discuss what had happened on the bus the day before.

  My son continued his sullen silence in the car. While I never condoned pouting, I understood his reasons. It was bad enough that he was bullied and humiliated in front of his classmates. Now his mother was going to have a talk with the principal about the matter.

  Poor Spence probably feels trapped and embarrassed, I thought, with more humiliation to come.

  No, baby, more than anything, your son’s pissed off.

  “Back off, Jack.”

  Why? You can handle the truth once in a while, can’t you?

  “Of course Spencer is angry. You know very well a bigger boy at school gave him a hard time. But I’m going to have a talk with the principal and see that a matron is put on the bus from now on—”

  A matron! Baby, your son’s not going to have a matron with him every minute of every day. He’s got to learn how to handle punks and Brunos.

  “How?”

  Jack Shepard offered a variety of tactics he himself had used in the past. I shook my head.

  What’s your beef?

  “Things are a lot different from when you were a kid, Jack. If Spencer took your advice, I’m fairly sure he’d end up in juvenile hall or I’d end up being sued for everything—or both.”

  I tried to explain the wonderful world of modern middle-class public education.

  What do you mean “Zero Tolerance”? Are you telling me a red-blooded American boy can’t bring a switchblade or a pair of brass knuckles to school these days?

  “Sorry, Jack. The future’s pretty complicated.”

  Jack went silent.

  “What?” I asked. “Don’t you have any more parental advice to dispense?”

  Listen up. Forget the brass knuckles. I’ll make it simple because, when you’re dealing with the human animal, some things will never change. Bullies look for weakness and fear. Your son has to learn how to overcome his fear and fight for his dignity. He has to learn how to stand up for himself.

  I drove by the entrance to the Finch Inn, past the sign for the restaurant, and swerved onto Crowley Road. We crested the hill, went through the traffic light, and began rolling down the other side when a flurry of white particles blew across the roadway.

  “Mom, look! It’s snowing.”

  The particles swirled right into the path of my Saturn. Then a wind funnel swept them onto the shoulder of the road, where they collected like snowflakes. But they weren’t snowflakes.

  The white torrent was formed by thousands of pellets of foam peanuts, the finer grain we used at the store to protect books during shipping. It was about that time that my stomach clenched with an ominous premonition.

  “An accident,” Spencer said. He leaned forward and peered through the windshield.

  Crowley Road ended at the bottom of a steep hill, where it hit Seneca. Drivers could make
a right or left turn on Seneca. Going straight wasn’t an option unless you wanted to crash through a wooden fence and slam into a tree. It was clear from our vantage near the top of the hill that someone in a maroon sedan had chosen the third option.

  Debris from the shattered fencepost littered the grassy field now sprinkled with foam. The sedan had left tracks in the soft dirt, leading right to a tall oak. The vehicle’s front end was crumpled into a U around its stout trunk. The hood was bent like an accordion and the front windshield was shattered. The sedan’s doors were open, and a thin stream of foam continued to pour out of the vehicle. The trunk had popped, too. On the ground next to the wreckage lay a stretcher bearing a shrouded body.

  Emergency vehicles were parked all over the place: Quindicott Police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks. I braked as I approached the scene.

  A young officer I didn’t recognize waved me around the bend, but as I swung onto Seneca and negotiated my way through the vehicle barrier, a bearlike figure stepped into the path of my Saturn. I say “bearlike” in the literal sense, for Chief Ciders of the Quindicott Police was indeed built like a bear, and not the cuddly kind. He had the disposition of a bear, too, though debate raged about whether he acted more like a hibernating bear or an angry one.

  (If you want my two cents, given our little town’s low crime rate, he acted like the former most of the time—until something set him off, in which case he acted more like the latter.)

  The chief recognized me. I know because I saw him scowl just before he waved me into a space between two fire trucks.

  “Park!” Ciders called tersely (even though, what he really cried was “Pahwk!” because his accent was particularly thick).

  I had no choice but to pull over. I parked, rolled down the window, and cut the engine. The chief approached the car. Tucking his hat back on his head, he leaned his face into my window and leveled his watery gaze on me.

  “Why is it, if there’s trouble in this town, you and Fiona are always in it?”

  I blinked innocently. “Whatever do you mean, Chief?”

  “I’m talking about the dead fellow we just pulled out of this car. I just talked to Fiona and she told me he was staying at her inn last night. She claims he never checked out, never slept in his bed.”