The Ghost and Mrs. McClure (24 page)

“What are you getting at?”

“Oh, my God,” I breathed. “Last night, when Shelby came here, she asked to use—”

“I didn’t get suspicious because she’d asked to use the one upstairs—”

“Did you see what she did in there?”

“I remember Shelby was pale when she came back from ‘freshening up.’ She seemed nervous, too.”

“I don’t know, Jack, this is going to be awfully hard to prove—”

Suddenly a wave of raw emotion washed through me, and I reeled, grabbing the counter to steady myself against what felt like the wind being knocked out of me.

I took a deep breath, not sure whether I was more shaken up by Jack’s reality check or the intimate rush of his intense emotions.

“Where does that leave us?” I asked.

My heart sunk. It had been a disillusioning few days for me. First I discovered that a much-admired literary figure was, in reality, a cruel, bitter old tyrant who bullied everyone around him. Then I’d learned that the sour old man stole most of his ideas from a real-life detective, and that he hadn’t even written some of the best work attributed to him. Now Jack was telling me that the very son-in-law who
had
written those novels—without thanks or credit—was probably a double murderer. From this set of facts alone, one might get the impression that a life in book publishing was as ruthless as a career in the Mafia.

“Okay,” I said. “How do we prove to the State Police that Deirdre is innocent? And that Shelby and Kenneth are the real murderers?”

Jack Shepard’s glee was a palpable thing, carbonating my veins like soda pop.

“That’s crazy! For starters, Fiona told me Kenneth went to Providence. That’s where the State Police took Deirdre, and he’s trying to secure a high-profile criminal lawyer before her arraignment tomorrow. Fiona said he’d be back after that to pick up the luggage.”

The faithful husband routine,
Jack replied.
Or maybe Kenneth was the one who stole farmer Zeb’s truck and used it to run down Josh Bernstein. Either way, it works out better for us. You might not be able to handle Franken, but Shelby will be a pushover for a saucy tomato like you.

“I’m no saucy tomato, Jack. And Shelby’s no pushover. She’s tough as nails and twice as hard. I butted heads with women like her during my eight years in publishing—and it was I who wore the bruises.”

That was before you met me, doll,
Jack said.
I can show you the ropes. And I’ve always found the toughest nuts are the easiest to crack. Poke a few holes in their skin and they deflate like balloons. You just have to muster the nerve to take a jab or two.

“Okay. Even if I buy your mixed metaphor, how am I going to convince Shelby to come over here?”

“But I don’t have the syringe. The police do—”

“Fiona Finch!”

In fact, as far as Shelby’s concerned, you just might have the
real
syringe, and the one Josh Bernstein found was a phony. Make her believe that, and you’ll have her eating out of your hand.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m supposed to give her the third degree? I don’t even know the etymology of the term.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I can’t do it. I’m just not very good at being tough, Jack. I’m sure I’d just fold and mess it all up somehow.”

There was a long, empty silence. A chill bit the air, and I shivered.

“Jack? . . . I’m sorry . . .” But there was no response. No voice. Not even a sense of him. Just a cold, empty room.

Suddenly, a hard, sharp series of knocks sounded on the glass of the store’s front door. I jumped and turned. A dark blue uniform shifted from foot to foot on the sidewalk: Officer Eddie Franzetti.

I went to the door, unbolted it. “Eddie? What brings you back?”

He didn’t speak right away. I didn’t like the expression in his dark brown gaze.

“Oh, hey, I saved you a copy of
Shield of Justice
,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. I moved into the store and reached behind the counter. With a sharp box cutter, I opened the very last of the twenty boxes and held the book out to Eddie. But he didn’t take it. Instead, he took off his hat and looked down at the floor.

“I knew you lied to me, Pen,” he said in a whisper. “You said you didn’t recognize that corpse. But I could see in your face that you did.”

I nodded. There was no use denying it now.

“I figured you had your reasons, so I gave you a little time. But we still haven’t I.D.’d him, so I had to come back.” Eddie lifted his head and his eyes met mine. “Who was it, Pen? And why didn’t you tell me his name?”

“His name was Josh Bernstein. He was a publicity assistant with Salient House. And his death was no accident,” I replied.

“You should have told me, Pen. Lying just makes it worse. Chief Ciders is already fit to be tied that we haven’t caught the driver yet.”

That sounded like Ciders, all right. I remembered how angry he’d looked when he finally got to the scene of the hit-and-run. He’d come straight from Embry’s lot, where Zeb’s stolen truck had been recovered. He still had the lot’s brick-red mud on his boots.

“I’m sorry, Eddie. I didn’t want to tell you it was Josh because I needed some time to think. I just didn’t want the police talking to Shelby Cabot. Not yet, anyway. Something’s going on. Something I can’t explain.”

Eddie shook his head again. His face was so grim I was really starting to worry. “Eddie? Is there something else on your mind?”

“I shouldn’t say anything,” he said. “I could get in a lot of trouble. But your brother Pete was one of my best friends. And your dad. He was the one who encouraged me, you know? Said I could become a cop like him, introduced me to the chief back when Ciders was still a patrolman.”

“I know.”

“They were good men, Pen. Both of them. God rest their souls.”

“Eddie? Come on. You’re scaring me. What’s this all about?”

“I got wind that the State Police are going to be coming by tomorrow. Deirdre was arrested for murdering her father, but they think she had an accomplice. And since you were the one who gave Brennan the bottle, and they got it on film . . . I’m really sorry, Pen, but you’re at the top of their list.”

“You’re kidding?” I rasped. My mouth had gone suddenly dry.

“Pen, just call a lawyer. Get some protection. I don’t know how far they’re going to go, but somebody really wants your hide. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. Is there anything I can do?”

I barely heard Eddie’s words. As my hand slowly set down the
Shield of Justice
book on the edge of the counter, I felt my body and mind go numb—except for one thought: My son. Spencer.

It’s time, Penelope
, said the voice in my head.
It’s time you learned how to fight.

“Okay,” I said out loud. “You’re on.”

She thought most men were weak and trusted her brains to slide her through anything.

—Ed Exley on Lynn Bracken,
L.A. Confidential
by James Ellroy, 1990

 

 

 

I PUT THE call through to Shelby Cabot’s room at Finch’s Inn. After five rings, I heard Shelby fumble for the receiver and manage a tired “Hello?”

Double murder, it seems, can take a lot out of a gal.

“Ms. Cabot, this is Penelope Thornton-McClure.” My voice actually sounded steady despite the fist that would not stop squeezing my stomach. “I’m sorry to bother you, but something urgent has come up.”

“Mrs. . . . McClure?” Shelby said through a yawn. I could hear the rustle of Fiona’s silk sheets. “What time—”

“I found something in the store,” I said. “I believe it belongs to you.”

“I’m so sorry, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied, wide awake now. The woman’s condescending tone had regained consciousness as well, “I’m certainly not aware of losing anything. Describe it,” she snapped, “would you?”

Drop the bomb,
Jack said in my head.

“It’s an item you left here on the night Timothy Brennan died. I’m sure it was what you came here to look for last night. You seemed so upset, and I did want to help you, but Mr. Franken arrived and—well, I’d wanted to speak to you privately.”

There was a long pause. Jack nudged me.
Go on, doll, you’re doing fine.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said with feigned bafflement. “I must be mistaken. I wanted to
help,
you understand? But this
medical
item probably belongs to someone else. I feel so silly . . . I’m so sorry to have bothered you.”

“No, no, Mrs. McClure, I’m glad you called. As you know, I’m here to represent the interests of Salient House—and under the most unusual circumstances!”

Shelby was trying hard to sound cheerful. But even over a phone line, I could sense the strain. She let out a little laugh, but the edge of it seemed raw, like a section of scraped flesh with its nerve endings exposed.

“Timothy Brennan was one of our authors, a member of our publishing
family
. If this call involves the late Mr. Brennan or Salient House in any way, then I’ll be glad to come over and settle this matter right away.”

“Very good,” I said. “Shall we say fifteen minutes?”

“I . . . I may need more time. And I’d like to first ask you—”

Hang up fast,
barked Jack.

“Fifteen and not a minute less or I’ll be
closed
.” I hung up before Shelby could make another peep.

I did what Jack instructed, turning out all the store’s interior illumination except for the security lights and fire exit signs.

Drunk tanks, interrogation rooms, and jail cells are grim for a reason,
Jack told me.
Make this place dark as a dungeon. Pump some fright into her
.

Nature was cooperating. Outside, the night was moonless, and leftover clouds from last night’s storm obstructed the usual burgeoning firmament. At this late hour on a Sunday, Cranberry Street was deserted, all the shop windows dark. I stood near the front door, peering through the glass. Behind me, the interior of Buy the Book seemed lost in a pall of shadows.

“Shelby wanted more time to dress,” I whispered
very
softly, so close to the glass my breath was making fog. “Why did you make me tell her fifteen minutes or not at all? What’s the point of rushing her?”

I blinked. What Jack said about “control” was pretty funny, considering I felt completely
out of
control right now. But I had to admit, his interrogation techniques impressed me. They were nothing like the stuff I usually saw on television cop shows, where good-cop/bad-cop was often the extent of the strategy. That game wouldn’t do me much good tonight. Sure, I could act the part of the marshmallow—but my hard-nosed counterpart was going to be out of sight if not completely missing in action.