The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library hb-3 Page 4

  “The Phelps books will surely sell,” Sadie said, changing the subject. “But to get the best price I may have to break up the set. It’s a shame but—”

  Chesley silenced my aunt with a raised hand. “Do what you have to. That doesn’t trouble me in the least. I inherited these books when I inherited Prospero House. To be perfectly frank, I have about as much interest in Poe as I do in this nautical claptrap you see around the mansion—which is to say, not much.” Chesley scowled. “Yachting was my father’s obsession. Poe my grandfather’s. Which explains the grotesque motif of that clock in the corner.”

  I’d hardly paid attention to the grandfather clock. It stood in the shadows next to that cluster of old daguerreo types mounted in square and oval frames that I’d assumed were Chesley ancestors when I’d first entered the library.

  Now I walked across the room to survey the antique. At over six feet tall, the heavy, dark wood case towered over me, its face flanked by a black cat and a stately raven, also carved in dark wood. The pendulum behind the glass was shaped like a swinging axe blade.

  Cheery, ain’t it?

  “The images are from Poe’s poetry and tales,” I silently informed Jack. I hadn’t read Poe since my adolescence, but I recognized some of the carvings in the clock’s case—a heart, a dagger, a beautiful woman wrapped in a shroud, and a primate of some sort. I puzzled over the simian for a minute, until I remembered the identity of the killer in “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” And, of course, I understood the meaning of Prospero House now. It wasn’t a reference to the magician and banished duke in Shakespeare’s Tempest, but the prince in Poe’s “The Masque of the Red Death.”

  Chesley spoke up. “That clock belonged to my grandfather. I imagine he had it specially made.” He snorted. “Waste of good money.”

  Sadie cleared her throat. “Well, I shall certainly do my best to move this consignment of books in as short a time as possible,”

  “Take as long as you like to sell them. And if my illness should overtake me, please consider them yours. Willed to you. A gift.”

  As Sadie opened her mouth to protest, a thunderous crash interrupted her, only this crash wasn’t thunder. The noise came from over our heads, a loud bang followed by a lot of little bouncing sounds, like the sound of a heavy metal vase full of pebbles crashing to the floor.

  Sadie let out a small scream of surprise.

  Peter Chesley glanced up at the ceiling.

  “What was that?!” I cried, quickly crossing the room to join them.

  Brain it out, doll, Jack warned. Sounds like there’s more than one fruitcake in this nut house.

  CHAPTER 3

  Turnaround

  Listening for noises was no good. The storm was making hundreds of them.

  —Dashiell Hammett, “The Gutting of Couffignal,” 1925

  “THAT CRASH CAME from upstairs!”

  I moved toward the door. But before I took three steps, Peter Chesley rolled his chair directly into my path. His eyes were wide, and in the library’s flickering firelight I swear I saw fear in them.

  “Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. McClure. Such sounds are common. The house is in poor condition. Tonight’s rain and the wind have not helped the situation. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt…”

  “But—”

  “Please. It’s nothing to be alarmed about,” Peter declared. “Merely the walls settling…”

  Pops is laying track, baby. He’s taking you for a rube.

  “I know, Jack,” I silently replied. “I thought I heard a footstep before. What do I do?”

  Don’t bunch your panties up, Jack cautioned. We’re probably talking a clumsy butler here. If gramps wants to pretend we’re alone, play along with his carny act, let him think we’re all conned and make like the shepherd—

  “Make like you, Jack?”

  Make like the proverbial shepherd, sweetheart, and get the flock out.

  The grandfather clock struck nine. Peter Chesley’s shoulders slumped, and his head hung low on his waddled neck. “I’m terribly sorry, but I feel suddenly tired,” he moaned. “It is quite late…”

  “Of course, Peter. We understand,” my aunt replied. “Penelope and I should get back on the road, too. I can send someone over in our van tomorrow and pick up these books.”

  “No!” Peter cried, strangely reanimated. “I insist you take them now. Tonight. I have boxes right over there, in the corner. I’ll help you pack them up.”

  “But, Mr. Chesley, what about the paperwork?” I reminded him. “Both parties should agree on the terms of a consignment contract, and—”

  “Young woman, I’ve known your aunt for three decades. I can certainly trust you both to send the paperwork along at a later date. Whatever you decide is fine with me.”

  Ten minutes later, I was carrying a box of books out to the car while Peter helped my aunt pack up the rest of the consignment. When I came back inside, I paused at the base of the staircase, listening.

  The house was alive with sounds—wind whistling through corridors, the spatter of rain on the slate roof, the rustle of the trees outside, the constant thumping of water hitting the steel pan. But I could hear no more footsteps upstairs, no human sounds up there at all. I resisted the temptation to call “Hello?” and continued on to the library to carry out the next box of books.

  After the trunk was loaded up, Peter Chesley escorted us from the library to the front door. I offered to push him in his wheelchair, but, in yet another gesture of chivalry, he insisted on using his cane and seeing us out under his own power.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, my dear,” he told me sweetly and shook my hand. His grip was weak and bony, but his smile was genuine.

  “I’ll send you a consignment contract by Express Mail first thing in the morning, Mr. Chesley,” I assured him. “You should have it Tuesday, before noon.”

  I thanked the elderly man and discreetly moved to the car to allow Sadie a few minutes alone to say goodbye to her old friend. At the end of the adieu, I noticed Peter forcing his arthritic form to bow so he could kiss my aunt’s hand.

  When she finally settled into the passenger seat, I could see Sadie biting back tears. We drove away in silence. In my rearview mirror, the manor became a dark silhouette against a rolling purple sky. Roderick Road was still free of traffic, but now the rain had all but ceased. A steady wind gusting at around forty miles per hour was blow drying the landscape.

  “Oh, my, that was hard,” Sadie said at last. “Seeing how much Peter aged during our years apart…and he’s been so isolated, holing himself up in that dreadful place.”

  “He does live a strange existence,” I said, struggling to be diplomatic. “But he spoke of finding himself the patriarch of the family, and his responsibilities to that family. That means there are relatives out there, too. And he did mention it was the butler’s night off.”

  “I think Peter made up that story about the butler,” Sadie replied. “What butler would let his employer live in such conditions? If he’s lucky, Peter has a home-care nurse who checks on him weekly.”

  I heard Sadie sniff, saw her brush her glove across her damp cheek. “Well, now that I know he needs me…that he didn’t simply remarry some other woman and run off, I’m going to come visit him every weekend. I’m going to find out what’s really going on in that man’s life whether he likes it or not!”

  I smiled, happy to hear the fight in my aunt’s voice. If anyone could lift the eccentric Peter Chesley out of his gloomy, mildewed hole of an existence, it was Sadie Thornton.

  “I have tissue,” I offered, seeing her tears continue to flow. “In my purse in the back—Oh, no!”

  “What?”

  Now I knew why I hadn’t heard any wisecracks from Jack since we’d left the mansion. “I was so busy loading the trunk with boxes of books that I left my purse in Mr. Chesley’s library. My driver’s license and credit cards are in there, everything I need…” (Including my connection with Jack!)

&n
bsp; “We have to go back,” Sadie declared. “Turn around.”

  We’d been driving for ten minutes already, but I slowed the car to a crawl, looking for a place to make a U-turn. Before long, we were rolling through the iron gates of Prospero House once again.

  “I do hope Peter hasn’t retired already,” Sadie fretted.

  I glanced at my watch. “We’ve only been gone about twenty minutes. I’ll bet he’s still awake.”

  “Let me go inside. I can be in and out in a moment.”

  I gladly agreed. Chesley’s Mildewed Manor gave me the proverbial creeps, and I wasn’t keen on an encore appearance. As we rolled under the stone portico, however, I noticed that both massive front doors were wide open, the wind rippling the hanging curtains in the entranceway.

  Sadie stiffened. “Something’s wrong.”

  I stopped, cut the engine, and thrust the keys into Sadie’s gloved hand. “Wait here.”

  “What? No, Pen, wait for me—”

  I was much faster than my aunt, and out of the car and up the three stone steps before she’d gotten out of the passenger seat.

  “Mr. Chesley?” I called. “Can you hear me? Are you okay?”

  The howling wind was my only reply.

  I peered through the door and saw the motionless form on the hard stone floor. A hinge squeaked as the wind moved the door. I glanced at the locks, the doorknobs. There was no sign of forced entry.

  Behind me, I heard the car door slam, and seconds later my aunt was at my side. When she saw the man on the ground, she choked back a scream, took a step forward. I grabbed her arm, stopped her.

  “Just in case we’re not alone, we go in together.”

  I was more convinced than ever that I’d heard another person in the house earlier in the evening. Now I wondered whether that person was dangerous.

  Sadie understood my concern. Face pale, she nodded.

  Arm in arm, we stepped over the threshold. Cautiously, we scanned the room, searching for any sign of activity. The house seemed deserted, except for the man on the floor. We hurried to Peter’s side.

  “Watch my back,” I whispered.

  I bent over the man. He lay facedown at the bottom of the stairs, one bare foot resting on the bottom step, his velvet slipper missing. I felt his flesh for signs of life, but he was already cold. Even before I searched for a pulse, I suspected there was no life left in his frail, broken form.

  When I put my hand on his throat, I discovered an unnatural lump—as if he’d broken his neck—then drew my hand back so quickly I lost my balance and fell on my behind. Sitting on the ground, I glanced around, spied the bamboo wheelchair parked in the corner of the room, far from the stairs.

  There didn’t appear to be any marks on Chesley, nor signs of violence beyond the broken neck. I scanned the stairs, saw his missing slipper in the middle of the staircase near the second floor.

  My aunt looked away. She was distraught, sobbing. There was nothing she could do for the living Peter Chesley, not anymore, but we couldn’t just leave his corpse here.

  “We have to call 911,” I said.

  Sadie, still in shock, offered me a blank stare. “I…I don’t know where Peter keeps his phone,” she said.

  “Stay here. Don’t touch anything!”

  My tone was brusque, almost harsh, but I needed to get through to Sadie, who was clearly shaken by her friend’s sudden demise.

  I strode quickly back to the library. My purse was where I’d left it—dangling by its strap from the arm of the chair. I needed the cell phone inside to call the police. But as soon as my fingers touched the purse, a familiar voice filled my head.

  Miss me, baby?

  “Jack, something terrible has happened—”

  As I filled Jack in, I reached for the old buffalo nickel he once owned. I rubbed the coin between my fingers, like some stupid, scared kid looking for a genie in a bottle.

  Call the cops, honey, but look around first, Jack advised.

  “Huh?”

  Wake up, doll. You and auntie were the last to see this rube alive. If he’s been rubbed out, you’re both in the hot seat—prime suspects.

  “Jack! My God. What do you want me to look for?” I cried—out loud, as it turned out.

  Can the chatter, Tinkerbell. If a square john with a badge hears you yammering, he’ll get the idea you’re bats.

  “Sorry. I just got excited.”

  As I fumbled for my cell phone, a frantic cry interrupted the conversation in my head.

  “Pen! Pen!” Sadie shouted. “Come here!”

  Well, lamb chop, if it’s at all possible, sounds like things just got a little more exciting.

  CHAPTER 4

  Ratiocination

  While the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often remarkably incapable of analysis.

  —Edgar Allan Poe, “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” 1841

  WHEN I RETURNED to the entranceway, rippling red lights were flickering along the wall. The glow came through the still-gaping double doors. A shiny white police car had pulled up to the manor house, emergency lights flashing.

  “I’m sorry if I frightened you, Pen,” Sadie said. “I saw the lights outside and didn’t realize that it was the police. They certainly arrived quickly after you called them.”

  The cell phone was in my hand, but I hadn’t yet pushed the buttons. “I didn’t call them.”

  Two officers stepped out of the squad car, approached the open door. A second vehicle rolled up beside the first. Now four policemen were staring at my aunt and the twisted corpse on the floor.

  Sadie hurried forward to meet them. “Thank goodness you’ve come. Something terrible has happened. My friend, I think he’s dead!”

  Sadie’s hands were shaking, and she was tearful. I wanted to corral my aunt, calm her, but a voice in my head stopped me.

  Use your noodle, baby. There’s a stiff on the floor. A little opera on your aunt’s part will help convince the cops that you’re as innocent as a pair of Easter chicks.

  “But we are innocent,” I silently protested. “We certainly didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Step back and look at the fishbowl you’re swimming in, doll. The cops net you at the scene of a suspicious death, practically standing over the coffin stuffer. And you didn’t even tip the law to the rub-out.

  “But I was just about to call the police—”

  Someone beat you to it. Possibly even the perp.

  That got my attention.

  I suddenly remembered the sounds I’d heard earlier on the second floor. Had a killer struck Peter Chesley down after we had left, never guessing we’d return so soon?

  “You think Chesley was murdered,” I silently said to Jack. “Did you witness anything while I was gone?”

  Get a grip, honey. Outside of that fieldstone tomb of mine you call a bookshop, I’ve got no awareness unless you’re around. But we’re both on the same frequency. The old-timer couldn’t walk, and he didn’t fly up those stairs. Did you see an elevator?

  “No. And I remember him saying the upper floors were sealed off…. Peter Chesley could hardly walk, yet his slipper is sitting halfway up the stairs.”

  It’s a cinch. The perp’s setting up the investigators to think gramps’s big chill came from an accidental fall.

  I wanted to talk more with Jack, but an officer had already moved Sadie into the library. Now his partner, a young man in his twenties, thin-lipped with a jutting chin and prominent Adam’s apple, was approaching me. So I shut up. Being seen talking to myself was probably less of a red flag than talking to a ghost, but I didn’t want to be caught doing either.

  “Thank God you’ve come, Officer,” I said.

  Over the man’s shoulder, I saw the two other uniformed officers examine Peter Chesley. One of them checked the man’s vital signs and shook his head.

  Meanwhile, my officer—the name on his tag read DURST—reached into his nylon jacket. He produced a pad and a pen.

 
; “What’s your name and your business here?”

  “My name is Penelope Thornton-McClure. My aunt, Sadie Thornton, and I were here to visit Mr. Chesley. That’s the man on the ground. Peter Chesley.”

  “You found him that way?” Officer Durst jerked his head to indicate the corpse.

  “Well, yes…”

  Smart cookie, said the ghost. Tell the truth. And the more often you can keep your answers to one syllable, the better.

  “And that’s when you called 911?”

  I blinked in surprise. “I didn’t call anyone. I was about to call emergency with my cell phone, but you and your partner showed up before I had the chance.”

  It was Officer Durst’s turn to be surprised. “But we were responding to a 911 call at this address. A call of distress, according to dispatch.”

  That piece of the puzzle certainly didn’t fit the scene of an accidental fatal fall. I could see the discrepancy troubled the officer, too.

  Join the club, buster! I thought.

  Suddenly another voice intruded.

  Clam up, Penelope, Jack warned. This badge is small fry. He’s playing for time, doing the old softshoe until the big fish shows.

  I lowered my eyes, brushed my fingers against my forehead. “I’m, ah…feeling a little faint,” I told the officer. “Can I sit down for a moment?”

  “Sure,” the officer replied. “I think we can wait until the detective arrives to get your statement.”

  Good play, baby.

  I sank down on a hardwood bench, sitting against a stone wall in the foyer. The seat was cold, the walls were frigid—and since the doors were still wide open, the damp nighttime air was streaming in so the front hall was polar, too. I shivered.

  Officer Durst took no notice. He was trying to raise someone on his portable radio. A moment later his partner emerged from the library. Sadie was still in there—where a warm fire crackled in the fireplace. I envied her.

  Suddenly there were more lights outside, and sirens, too. I heard tires squeal on the wet pavement. Then the sound of doors opening, slamming shut again. A pair of paramedics rushed in. They were followed by an unkempt, florid-faced man with pale gray eyes and thinning brown hair edged with silver.