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

  The man strolled into the possible crime scene with the casual attentiveness of a man looking for an empty table in a crowded diner. His beige raincoat was unbuttoned; under it, his white cotton shirt was wrinkled and untucked. His tie was too wide to be remotely fashionable, the knot askew under a gold shield that hung from his thick neck by a yellow band. The detective was large, his shoulders wide. He wasn’t fat, but, over his belt, a spare tire was evident under his loose shirttails. He stifled a yawn as he approached Officer Durst.

  After Durst filled him in, I watched the detective case the foyer. He stood over Peter Chesley’s corpse for a moment, then glanced into the bucket still catching water from the roof. He climbed the stairs, noting the dead man’s slipper without touching it. At the top of the stairs I saw him reach into his pocket and draw out a handkerchief. He used the cloth to pick up something—Peter Chesley’s cane.

  “Jack…”

  Yeah, I saw it, doll.

  He leaned the cane against the tarnished gilt railing. Then the detective moved through an arched doorway on the second floor and out of sight. He was gone for a good fifteen minutes.

  During that time, the paramedics had given up trying to revive Peter Chesley. A man from the medical examiner’s office arrived and pronounced the man dead. Then everyone stood aside as a young woman from the crime scene unit took pictures of the area.

  The detective finally came back downstairs. After another word with Officer Durst and his partner, the detective approached me. I moved to rise, but he gestured for me to remain seated.

  “Please, rest. You’ve had a tough night. My name is Detective Douglas Kroll, Newport Police. I understand your name is Penelope McClure?”

  I nodded. Douglas Kroll’s voice seemed impossibly soft for a man so large and imposing—but then I thought of Mike Tyson. Pulling aside his coat, Kroll knelt down on one knee in front of me, as if he were about to propose. He pulled out a pad and rested it on his leg.

  “Tell me what happened from the beginning, Mrs. McClure.”

  I told him everything. How we’d come and gone then returned to fetch my forgotten purse. I even mentioned the strange noise I heard while my aunt Sadie and I were visiting, suggesting that perhaps someone was lurking in the house.

  To my surprise, Detective Kroll shrugged lethargically. “I was just up there. The place is falling apart. You heard the sound of the storm, the wind, and this dump falling to pieces, that’s all.”

  “Then you think this was an accident?”

  The detective looked at me strangely. “What else?”

  His tone didn’t imply that he was suddenly suspicious—more like I was paranoid to suggest anything else.

  “Look, Mrs. McClure. It’s pretty clear what happened here. Mr. Chesty there—”

  “Chesley,” I corrected. “His name was Peter Chesley.”

  “The deceased lost his balance on the stairs.”

  “But—”

  “His cane was at the top of the stairs. You did say that was his cane, correct?”

  I nodded. “But Peter told us he hadn’t gone up those stairs in a year. He said he was too weak to try.”

  Kroll shrugged again. “Maybe he wasn’t telling you the truth.”

  “He said he had his bedroom moved down to the first floor,” I told him. “Peter said that he was sleeping in a small room off the kitchen.”

  Douglas Kroll turned his head. Officer Durst was standing nearby. “You hear that, son?” Kroll asked.

  “I did, Detective. I found a bedroom, right next to the kitchen.”

  “See!” I cried. “Why would a man as wealthy as Mr. Chesley sleep in a tiny room next to the kitchen if he could climb the stairs?”

  “Why would a wealthy man live in a dump that’s falling apart?” Kroll asked, then glanced at his notes. “Anyway, your statement and your aunt’s match up.” He turned to Durst. “You can bring Ms. Thornton back in.”

  “What about the 911 call?” I asked. “Officer Durst told me he was responding to a distress call. But I didn’t make it. Neither did my aunt.”

  Detective Kroll nodded. “I already checked with dispatch. The call definitely came from this house. A male voice.”

  My jaw dropped. “Then the killer was in this house. We might have nearly caught him in the act—”

  Detective Kroll squinted. “Now why would you assume that? Look, ma’am,” Kroll continued in the most patronizing tone imaginable, “this same kind of thing happened last year to that fellow over at Bellecourt Castle. He was as old as this geezer—I mean, the unfortunate Mr. Chesley, here. The old fellow who owned Bellecourt, well he got away from his handlers and took a walk around the castle. He was suffering from Alzheimer’s, experienced a bout of mental confusion—”

  This guy knows all about mental confusion, griped Jack.

  “—And he tripped on the rocks and broke his neck.”

  “But who called 911?”

  “I’m going to get the transcript of the call, and maybe even a tape the first thing in the morning, but you know what I think?”

  I frowned. “No. What?”

  “I think the deceased made the call because he felt faint or dizzy,” Kroll said with a touch of smugness. “Or maybe he was even feeling the beginning stages of a stroke or heart attack. Then maybe he went upstairs for his pills, or maybe he just got confused. The stairs are wet, the geezer looks shaky to me. Down he came.”

  Sounds reasonable on his end. But that doesn’t make it true.

  I was about to argue some more with Kroll when the library door opened. Officer Durst led my aunt out. She hurried to my side.

  “Here’s my card,” Detective Kroll said, thrusting it into my hand. “If you have any questions, give me a call. I have your address and your statements. You can both go home. My department will contact Mr. Chesley’s family and notify them of his passing…”

  Neither of us spoke as we headed for our car. It took a few minutes for me to maneuver around all the emergency vehicles, but I managed. We were through the gate and a mile down the road before Aunt Sadie broke the silence.

  “Do you think Peter’s fall was an accident?”

  “No,” I said softly.

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I…I don’t know…the detective’s got a lot of reasonable answers for what happened to him, but I know that I heard someone upstairs. And I just can’t believe your friend climbed those stairs under his own power—or called 911 himself, for that matter, unless he was afraid of being attacked and called the police for help.”

  The vote’s unanimous, Jack said. Gramps didn’t die by accident, he was shoved into his coffin.

  “But, Pen, what can we do about it?” Sadie asked.

  I squeezed the steering wheel, unhappy to face reality, but the Newport police were all over this case and, to me, Peter Chesley was a virtual stranger. In the end, I had a business to run and a little boy to raise.

  “Nothing,” I finally told my aunt. “There’s nothing to be done.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The Dreamer

  All that we see or seem

  Is but a dream within a dream.

  —Edgar Allan Poe, “A Dream Within a Dream,” 1827

  LATER THAT NIGHT, buried under a pile of bedcovers, I tried not to lie awake, repenting my decision—and failed.

  After Sadie and I had arrived home, I drove our part-time clerk Mina Griffith back to her dorm room at St. Francis College, paying her double-time for baby-sitting Spencer. Finally, well after midnight, I returned home and collapsed.

  Now I lay on my mattress, eyes wide. Across the shadowy ceiling, the stripped-down limbs of our hundred-year-old oak became a bacchanal of dancing skeletons. Down the street, the long, tubular chimes, hanging from Mr. Koh’s grocery store awning became a melancholy specter, moaning on the storm’s dying wind.

  Need a bedtime story, baby?

  “Jack?”

  Well, it ain’t Clark Gable.

  I closed
my eyes and sighed, happy to hear his voice. “Strange,” I whispered.

  What?

  “I never would have thought there’d be so many things in life more disturbing than talking to a dead man.”

  Such as?

  My eyes opened again. I turned onto my side, punched my pillows, then hugged one to me. “I can’t get the image out of my head.”

  You mean, Peter Chesley’s broken old body, lying at the base of the staircase he couldn’t climb?

  “Don’t, Jack.”

  Don’t what?

  “Don’t push me to pursue this.”

  You’re the one who can’t sleep, sister.

  “Yes.”

  But it’s not just because of Old Man Chesley, is it?

  “No.”

  Reminds you of another body, doesn’t it?

  “Yes.”

  Believe me, baby, I know how it goes.

  “He was right there, next to me. His head was on the pillow, sleeping but alive…and then…and then he was sleeping on the concrete.”

  There was nothing you could do.

  “I got up to take care of Spencer, start the coffee…I came back and there he was, on the ledge. I called his name, ran to him…”

  There was nothing you could do.

  “You’ve said that before, Jack, but that’s not how I feel.”

  We’ve been over this ground already, baby. Your husband was sick and self-absorbed. He lied to you about seeing his doctor, taking his medication. He verbally abused you, and his family ignored the problem. Then he tried to fly. But the way he treated you, neglected his own son, fired doctors who were trying to help…the man wasn’t even close to getting wings.

  “I was right there tonight, too, Jack. And I couldn’t stop it again. I was right there with Mr. Chesley, and I heard that crash upstairs. I knew something was wrong, but I left. I drove away! It was like Calvin all over again. Mr. Chesley was sick. But he was alive. He didn’t deserve to die like that. Nobody does.”

  Baby…who do you think you’re talking to?

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “Sorry, Jack.”

  Forget it.

  “But don’t you see?” I tossed and turned again, this time landing on my back. “That’s what I’m trying to do…forget Chesley, and Calvin…forget my brother, my parents. Not the good memories, but the awful pain of missing them, of seeing the life leave their eyes. I keep thinking if enough time goes by, I won’t see them dead anymore…”

  There’s no forgetting, honey. Counting my war service, I’ve seen enough corpses to fill ten Books of the Dead, maybe a whole library, like that crumbling depository of Chesley’s Molding Manor.

  “Books of the Dead?…You know about those?”

  I myself had seen one only once, in a museum collection. There were pages and pages of family corpses, dressed in their Sunday best, propped and posed for their daguerreotypes. Medicine being what it was in the nineteenth century, and disease cutting short so many young lives, there were a heartbreaking number of children in that book—babies, young people, men and women in their prime.

  Old-timers still had Books of the Dead in my day, Jack said. Passed on from their parents and grandparents. You know what some of the superstitious rubes believed, don’t you?

  “You mean the thing about a photograph of a corpse preserving some part of a person’s soul?”

  Funny what people make up about things they don’t understand.

  “I don’t suppose you understand why you’re still around?”

  The room was only slightly chilly, nothing like the refrigerator it had been last winter. Outside, the wind whipped at the sturdy window frames, as if trying to gain entry at the insulated edges. But we’d had a pretty good year financially and had splurged on new windows for the old building. All of a sudden, I felt a whispery touch on my face, as if a ribbon of air had managed to slip into my bedroom and brush my cheek.

  I’m around because of you, baby…

  “Because of me?” I repeated, the feathery touch sending prickles of electricity across my skin. “What do you mean?…”

  It took a long minute for the ghost to answer.

  I don’t want to miss your latest line-up of mooks and grifters.

  “Come on, Jack. Don’t make me laugh.”

  Why the hell not? Life’s short.

  I refluffed my pillows. “Apparently not your afterlife.”

  Cheap shots now, huh?

  “That’s rich, coming from you.”

  Listen, lamb chop, you remember the last case we worked on together, that crazy debutramp with the triple-pierced ears, peddling her glorified true confession tale for the cover price of a decent day’s wage in my time?

  “Sure, I remember. Angel Stark and her true crime book. How could I forget?”

  Remember when things were dicey, how I got your mind off your troubles?

  “Yes, Jack, but I don’t think—”

  I got to thinking about those old photos on Chesley’s wall…the ones next to that creep show of a grandfather clock. They reminded me of another photo…it was given to me during a case I worked on back in ’46, a missing persons.”

  “A woman?”

  A man. His name was Vincent Tattershawe. When I questioned his fiancée, I honestly didn’t have a clue whether the guy had crawled back into a bottle, met with an unfortunate accident, or took a powder with her assets in his pocket. Didn’t matter what I thought, though. I couldn’t let on to the woman—Dorothy Kerns was her name. I needed as many leads as she could dole out, and I’d gotten marching orders from her brother.

  “Marching orders? What kind?”

  Dorothy wanted a shamus on the case, but it was her brother who’d hired me. He’d invited me up to his gentleman’s club, gave me the once-over, and the okay to get started. Told me he never liked Tattershawe, and he suspected the man hadn’t simply “disappeared,” but instead had run off with his sister’s money. That’s why he wanted him found.

  Seems Miss Dorothy Kerns had given Tattershawe some lettuce to invest. Now her brother wanted the money back, so he wanted Tattershawe found, but he didn’t want his sister to know where the man was. I was supposed to find the guy then let Kerns deal with him.

  “Okay, I follow. So what did you do?”

  First thing: I interviewed the dame. Baxter Kerns warned me that his sis was this weak thing, full of dread. But, after I talked to her, I could see she was made of sterner stuff. All that anxiousness was only on the surface. Beneath it, I found some fairly solid metal…like you, Penelope.

  My cheeks warmed. Jack had used my first name and bestowed a compliment—not something he did very often.

  “You turning sappy on me, Jack?”

  Don’t get fresh, lamb chop. Leave the cracking wise to yours truly.

  “Are we going to partner up again?”

  Listen, Penny with the copper hair, you got lucky twice now. But you’re still wetter behind the ears than a drowning flounder, so take my advice. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open…after they shut for the night, that is…I’ve got some things to show you…

  Jack’s voice had gotten softer and sweeter, and soon my eyelids felt like velvet Broadway curtains slowly coming down…

  New York City

  October 18, 1946

  Dorothy Kerns lived on Fifth Avenue across from Central Park. Her building had a clean granite façade and an impressive lobby with leather divans, modernistic paintings, and that peculiar scent so pervasive after the war: old and new money mixing together in presumable harmony.

  Jack presented Miss Kerns’s calling card to a middle aged doorman in dark blue livery, a diminutive man with a big nose, big hands, and a big attitude. He snapped up the card, as full of himself as the people who strolled Fifth’s wide, exclusive sidewalks.

  Jack waited as the doorman phoned Miss Kerns. When he got the all-clear, Jack moved to the elevator. The inside aviator caged him in and took him up three flights. There were only two apartments on Miss Kerns�
�s expansive floor—but four doors. Each flat had a front door for its residents and their guests and a service door for the help.

  Jack rang at Dorothy Kerns’s front door, well aware he was a hired man, no better than those going in the back.

  A young maid with pinned-up raven hair and peach cheeks received him with a shy smile. Jack tipped his brim to her, then placed his fedora in her small hands, along with his overcoat.

  “Would you like anythin’, sir?” Her voice was light and young with traces of an Irish brogue. “Perhaps somethin’ to drink?”

  “Scotch and water.” He might have ordered it neat instead, but he’d had a lot to drink already. Pity, he thought, since he doubted Dorothy Kerns would be serving her guests coffin varnish. This well-heeled dame probably stocked the best tonsil paint around.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the young maid said, “but Miss Kerns doesn’t allow alcohol in the apartment. Would you care for a lemonade?”

  Jack suppressed a shudder. “No, honey. Just bring me one on the city.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Water. I’ll have a glass of water.”

  “Yes, sir. This way, please.”

  The maid directed him through a pair of French doors into a grand sitting room, where he was left alone for a good ten minutes. Tall casement windows along the far wall looked out on the mannerly street busy with smart looking couples, chauffeurs in black livery, valets in overcoats walking family dogs.

  It was a different world in this hemisphere—south of Harlem, north of Bowery. You had no hustlers or grifters in this pocket of wealth near the park, no beggars or booze-hounds. Off-duty cops were singing “Danny Boy” in the Irish pubs downtown, not here. And tanked-up clerks and salesmen, wailing about their war wounds, wouldn’t be falling down on these sidewalks.

  It was a good place for picking innocent cherries, Jack thought, if you were an operator like Vincent Tattershawe.

  The maid brought him his water and Jack glanced around the large salon. If heaven had a waiting room, he figured this would be it. The walls, furniture, and rugs were all ivory and cream. The fireplace was white marble, carved with tiny cherubs. Although no fire burned in its pristine grate, he took a load off on a cloud-colored armchair nearby.