The Ghost and the Dead Deb (6 page)

 

 

BEFORE I’D REACHED Buy the Book’s front door, Johnny Napp was already through it, running outside. Dana Wu bolted after him, with me on her heels and Aunt Sadie and Mina on mine.

Outside, in the middle of the otherwise desolate street, Angel Stark lay sprawled on the concrete, the gauzy skirt of her Betsy Johnson neon-green and hot-pink sundress fluttering in the night like a downtown distress signal. In his baggy blue jeans and black T-shirt, Johnny Napp knelt over her. But Angel wasn’t moving, and I feared the worst—until she began spewing an outraged string of obscenities.

Obviously, the girl wasn’t dead.

Dana raced into the street and to her client. But the elementary school crossing guard programmed into my head through years of motherhood made me pause and check for traffic before stepping off the sidewalk. All eyes were on Angel, but when I turned my head, I spied a car careening up Quindicott’s main street, its scarlet taillights receding in the distance.

The sedan was a black Jaguar. Unfortunately, with only Cranberry Street’s brand new faux-Victorian streetlights as illumination, and because I’ve read far too many novels late into the night, my eyes weren’t up to deciphering the license plate, though I did notice a white and blue bumper sticker of some kind—but on the left side of the
trunk
, not the chrome bumper, where one would expect such a sticker.

“Son of a bitch!” Angel Stark yelled as the vehicle vanished around a corner. I turned to find Johnny Napp and Dana trying to help Angel to her feet. Pale and out of breath, Angel had lost one of her shoes, which gentleman Johnny quickly retrieved, and her corset-bodiced sundress was disheveled and dirty. Otherwise, Angel Stark did not seem any worse for wear, though her face was florid and her classic features folded into an angry scowl.

I was still on the sidewalk as Mina and Sadie caught up to me.

“Oh, my,” Aunt Sadie muttered, and I noticed she was wringing
her
hands now. But as I’ve tried to tell her many times before, bookselling is murder these days.

“Damn it! Is everybody in this cracker burg a critic?” Angel yelled, pushing her hair back and tugging on her pump.

Dana reached for Angel’s arm. “Let’s get off the street. Get you inside—” But Angel Stark fended her off.

“I’m fine. I can walk!” Angel insisted, even as she grasped Johnny Napp’s muscular, barbwire-tattooed bicep for support. In fact, once her shoe was in place, Angel wrapped both of her shapely, health club-toned arms around his waist.

I glanced back at Mina. In the soft night breeze, her flyaway brown hair was dancing about her freckled face. Her brown eyes were flaring, her expression pained.

“What happened?” Aunt Sadie whispered.

“I think someone tried to run Angel down,” I replied. “I saw a car—”

Dana Wu whirled and faced her client. “Is that what happened?”

“No! God no,” Angel replied, too quickly. “It was just some low-rent asshole who made a rude comment about my book. I guess I should be used to cheap shots by now, but I’m tired, and
it really pissed me off!
”

Angel screamed the last few words in the direction of the Jag, now long gone.

I wondered what sort of “low-rent asshole” drove a hundred thousand dollar car. Clearly Dana Wu wasn’t satisfied with the author’s characterization of the incident, either.

“Listen to me, Angel,” Dana said, grabbing Angel’s shoulders. “You have to be straight with me, kiddo. Tell me exactly what happened.”

Angel stepped back, then ran her fingers through her long, copper hair. Finally, she turned away from us and, with both hands, adjusted the corset-laced bodice of her dress, nearly exposing her breasts. After that she leaned against Johnny for support—which seemed rather odd to me because, a moment ago, Angel was strong enough to stand on her own two feet—and screamed bloody murder.

“What happened, Angel?” Dana asked again.

“It was like I said,” Angel replied, calmer now—and more guarded. “Some creep pulled up in a car, rolled down the window, and told me my books suck. I grabbed the door handle and told the jerk to come out of the car and say that again because I had a few things to say back, and the driver took off—I lost my balance and fell facedown in the street.”

“Man or woman?” Dana’s eyes were hard as she asked the question.

Angel dodged the woman’s eyes, suddenly busy brushing the dirt off her filmy skirt. “What difference does it make?”

After a long silence, I spoke to Dana. “Maybe you should report the incident to the police? Ms. Stark is a celebrity, and this could be a stalker incident, and we all know stalkers can be dangerous. At the very least Angel should file a police report in case it happens again.”

It was an intelligent and logical response—and exactly the
wrong
thing to say.

“No way!” Angel blasted. “Don’t you get it? I’m the one exposing the incompetence of how their brothers in blue over the next hill completely botched Bethany’s murder investigation.” Angel vehemently shook her head. “No police. No way.”

To my surprise, Dana Wu agreed.

“Angel’s right. This is too close to where it all happened. In my opinion, Angel’s got no friends among the local authorities. And nobody wants this story to turn up in the newspapers.”

Something in me expected to hear Jack’s voice at that moment saying,
Hmm, apparently not all publicity is good publicity, all of a sudden
. I reached out with my thoughts anyway. “Jack?”

But the ghost was nowhere near me now, because I had stepped beyond the fieldstone walls of my bookstore. Why had Jack’s spirit been imprisoned inside the store since his death? I had my theories, but I still didn’t have any real clues.

Suddenly, to everyone’s surprise, Angel Stark did not return to the store. Instead, she slumped down on the curb next to a battered rust-red pickup truck with “Bud Napp’s Hardware” emblazoned in black on the side panels.

“I still need that smoke,” Angel announced. “Then I’m going back to that lace-doily inn up the street and shutting down for the night.”

As she spoke, Angel produced a thin brown cigarette from a hidden pocket, then fumbled for something to light it with. There was an embarrassing pause, for none of us smoked.

A sudden toot from the car alarm sounded as Johnny unlocked the cab of his uncle’s Napp Hardware pickup truck and reached into the glove compartment to retrieve a Ronson lighter, which he opened with a snap.

“Thanks,” Angel said as she took a drag.

Johnny looked ready to walk away when Angel smiled from the curb and touched his hand. “Hey, I want to talk to you . . . Thank you for what you did out there.”

Standing in the shadows, Mina watched as Johnny hesitated for a moment, then crouched down in front of Angel.

Aunt Sadie saw the hurt look on Mina’s face and nudged the girl’s shoulder. “Shouldn’t you take care of your boyfriend?”

Frowning, Mina called, “Hey, Johnny. Are you coming?”

Johnny turned. “It’s okay, Mina. Go on back in and finish your shift. I’ll hook up with you later, like we planned.”

Her eyes narrowing, her hurt turning to anger, Mina spun and marched back inside.

Dana took my arm. “I think the show is finally over for tonight.” Politely but firmly, Dana pushed Aunt Sadie and me back into the store, too.

Sadie moved behind the counter, while Mina headed back to the events room. After that, the rest of the evening was a blur. Dana gave me the heads up about some of the hot author tours she knew would be barreling down the tracks, but had not yet been announced.

Meanwhile, my aunt tallied up the day’s receipts and counted out the cash in the registers, and from the Community Events space I could hear metal chairs banging and clanging loudly. I assumed that Mina was using the task of breaking down the room to vent her angry frustration with Johnny’s playing along with Angel’s flirtations.

I considered talking to the girl, but I knew it was something that had to work itself out. Young love is nothing if it isn’t volatile—which has got to be the oldest story in any bookstore.

Near the end of my conversation with Dana, we realized we had a few mutual acquaintances in publishing, holdovers from my days in New York. Dana was happy to fill me in on the latest gossip. Time slipped by and I didn’t notice that Mina had left for the night, or that Aunt Sadie had retired to the apartment above the store—the home we both shared with my son, Spencer, since my husband’s suicide a little over one year before.

“Oh, wow, it’s after midnight,” Dana cried. “I really have to run.”

I rose and escorted her to the front door, which my aunt had locked after Mina left. Dana and I said good night, and she promised to drop by again before she returned to New York City the next afternoon.

Then, dead on my feet, I yawned and locked the door. My eyes dry and red from wearing contact lenses for hours, and the start of a headache throbbing at my temples, I turned out all but the security lights and activated the burglar alarm.

Just then, a tapping on the front door startled me. I peered through the window and saw my slight, young employee standing on the dark sidewalk. I deactivated the alarm, unlocked the door, and Mina Griffith stepped inside.

Mina’s freckled face appeared flushed. “Sorry to bother you, Mrs. McClure, but I need to use the phone. My cell battery died and the pay phone in front of Koh’s isn’t working.”

I ushered her inside. “Who do you need to call? Are you stranded?”

Mina nodded. “I can call Rebecca, my roommate. She drove me to work today, and she can pick me up. Johnny was supposed to meet me at Frenzetti’s Pizza and give me a ride, but he’s an hour late and they’re closing up . . .”

Her voice faded, and I felt a stab of pity for the girl.

“Look, maybe there was a plumbing emergency or something and his uncle needed him,” I said. “Maybe he’s trying to call you and your cell is dead.”

Mina nodded listlessly.

“Why don’t I drive you home myself?” I offered.

“No,” Mina replied resolutely. “Rebecca can get me.”

I could see how upset Mina was, and I suspected she needed to pour her heart out to her roommate as soon as humanly possible. Twenty-five minutes later, Rebecca was pulling up, honking lightly in her Toyota, then Mina was gone.

 

 

AS I LOCKED up, set the alarm, trudged upstairs, and fed our little orange striped cat, Bookmark, I sincerely hoped Johnny Napp would turn up in the morning on Mina’s doorstep with a fistful of daisies and a good excuse—one that didn’t involve Angel Stark.

I checked on Spencer, and found him asleep. I gently kissed his tow-headed bangs, untangled his legs from the sheets and pulled them over his torso, then slipped back out the door.

I was sorry that I hadn’t spent much time with Spencer today. I had been busy getting ready for the author appearance, and he had day camp, so he’d been gone all morning until late in the afternoon. Then came Angel Stark’s appearance and I had to manage that.

Usually Spencer enjoyed the author appearances, but this time I felt that the R-rated nature of Angel Stark’s true crime book precluded a nine-year-old attending. Fortunately, Spencer willingly agreed to remain upstairs, most likely because Friday night was
Cop Show
night on the Intrigue Channel, and Aunt Sadie and I had stocked the freezer with all his favorite treats. (Thank heaven for cable and Hot Pockets.)

In my small bedroom, I stripped off my linen pantsuit, kicked off my slingback heels, and undid the French braid from my shoulder-length reddish-brown hair. Then I took out my contact lenses (worn for special occasions like author appearances), placed them next to my black, rectangular-framed glasses on the small wooden nightstand, crawled into bed, and clicked off the lamp.

For some reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about Dana Wu’s assertion that Angel Stark was careless. It was that damn Jag, I guess, dragging her through the street then peeling off without a backward glance.

I thought about that big yellow car in
The Great Gatsby
. How the rich and careless Daisy on a carefree lark of a drive from the Plaza Hotel to a Long Island mansion had run down that poor Queens woman on the wrong side of the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge—and never even slowed her pace. Just ran her down and kept right on going. How Gatsby had covered up for her, took care of her mess . . . which led to more than a few bullets through his brain.

I might have dismissed Fitzgerald’s novel as pure fiction except my late father had been a Quindicott police officer, and I’d grown up hearing plenty of stories of the wealthy kids around the region getting into trouble—from prankish vandalism to drunk driving and date rape—only to have charges dropped when things were “taken care of ” through payoffs to victims or connections with authorities.

I myself had struggled to get a half-scholarship into a top university, paying for room and board through work-study and the auctioned sale of my late father’s old
Black Mask
magazines—at the time, through Sadie’s store. I remembered my own earnest approach to classes and grades, remembered the shock of seeing a certain segment of the “smart” set looking down on my seriousness, taking pretty much nothing seriously themselves, blowing off classes without a thought.

Of course, to be honest, back then, I’d had stars in my eyes about the moneyed class, fancied the dream-life of being a part of their afternoons on the yacht and evenings at the country club. As a part of that world, Calvin immediately appeared polished and aloof and intellectual and desirable. My reality check came after I’d gotten accidentally pregnant with Spencer. My late husband and I had married right out of college, and I was instantly thrown under the thumb of his new family. A family with money—lots of it. And used to always getting their way.

And because Calvin’s wealth had made life perpetually easy for him, I found out too late that yes, he may have been intelligent and introspective and had all of those sensitive qualities an impressionable college girl wants in a romantic college boy, but he had a limited capacity for the things that actually mattered in a real-world marriage: patience, tolerance, strength, the capacity to compromise and make hard decisions, or even the discipline to make a consistent, continuous effort.