But Anna Worth really didn’t react to this news. She just blinked. It was the man in the tweed jacket who did most of the reacting. “I think you’ve upset my patient quite enough for one day,” he said, stepping between us.
“Your patient?”
Tweedy adjusted his tie. “My name is Dr. Stuart Nablaum, a practicing psychologist in Newport. Ms. Worth is my patient. I accompanied her two nights ago, and today, because we have some unfinished emotional business with Mr. Brennan.”
“You were here with Anna Worth the other night?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “Every moment. Anna is in such a delicate emotional state right now she can go nowhere without supervision—my supervision. Nor could I be so remiss as to have Ms. Worth face Timothy Brennan alone.”
“Why did she want to face Brennan at all?” I asked.
The man’s nostrils flared, and I thought he was going to throw me out of my own store. Then Anna spoke.
“Tell her,” she said in a breathy, little-girl voice.
“But Anna—”
“Please tell her, Stuart.”
Dr. Nablaum scowled at me. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Anna came here to face Timothy Brennan and tell him how much he had hurt her.”
“The scandal, you mean?” I said. “The articles Brennan wrote about it?”
Dr. Nablaum frowned. “Mrs. McClure, you probably don’t understand how hard a person has to fight to overcome an addiction—any addiction. Any bump in the road of life, any psychic scrape or emotional bruise can reverse years of progress.”
“I think I understand,” I replied.
“Do you?” Dr. Nablaum said. “If you truly do, then you understand how Anna Worth suffered at the hands of that yellow journalist—that, that scandalmonger, Timothy Brennan!”
I was a little taken aback by Dr. Nablaum’s passion. Maybe I should be considering him a suspect.
Not likely, Jack said. He’s steamed, all right, but I don’t make him for the killer. Or Anna. I’ve been eavesdropping on them since they toddled in. What you see is what you get—a frail frail and a low-rent head doctor who’s found his golden goose.
“Sad,” I thought.
Yeah, this broad’s a bundle of nerve endings. You can’t tell me she had the cool to poison Brennan and then remain calm when your local cops showed up asking questions. And that’s not even counting the fact that her doctor is a solid alibi.
I considered Jack’s logic. “Okay,” I thought, “maybe she didn’t do it. Maybe she hired someone. She has the money.”
Then why show up in the store on the night of the murder? Why implicate herself?
Maybe she wanted to witness the death with her own eyes.
Then why return to the scene and risk raising red flags?
“I guess you have a point,” I silently admitted.
Meanwhile, the doctor was going on about Anna’s condition. “Every time Anna made progress, a new article dredging up her past and opening old wounds would appear. Months of progress would fall away as poor Anna would sink again.”
“I see,” I said.
“All Anna wanted to do was unburden herself. Tell Brennan how he harmed her, and how she forgives him.”
“It’s part of my twelve-step program,” she said, gazing at Dr. Nablaum with something akin to awe.
I bit the inside of my cheek. The way she’d said “twelve-step program” so seriously and so reverently, I got the impression she’d never heard of it before she hooked up with Dr. Nablaum. I wondered in passing what he was charging her.
More than he’s worth.
Dr. Nablaum gazed at the heiress with eyes full of compassion. “For Anna, there can be no closure now.”
“That’s right,” said Anna. “Now I can never say the things I need to say to Timothy Brennan.”
Tell her to say it anyway, Jack said. Take it from me, the dead can hear.
I told Anna what Jack said (not mentioning, of course, that the advice actually came from a dead guy). Anna and her doctor considered my suggestion.
“Take all the time you need,” I said, pointing to the community events space. There, the carved oak podium still stood—a good enough stand-in for Brennan, I figured, since I was fairly certain that Jack was the only spirit haunting the bookstore.
I returned to the counter, where Seymour and Sadie looked at me expectantly. Before I could say a word, Fiona Finch burst through the door and hurried up to the counter.
“The State Police have been at my inn for the past two hours,” she declared.
“My God!” Sadie cried. “Whatever for?”
“A Criminal Investigation Unit showed up with a warrant. They searched the Frankens’ guest room from top to bottom. Then two detectives arrested Deirdre Franken for the murder of her father!”
CHAPTER 18
To Quibble or Not to Quibble
I dislike arguments of any kind. They are always vulgar, and often convincing.
—Oscar Wilde
“OKAY, FOLKS, I think everyone’s here who’s gonna be. Let’s get started.”
In so many words, Bud Napp called to order the emergency meeting of the Quindicott Business Owners’ Association—or, as Sadie and I liked to call it, the Quibble Over Anything gang.
It was Sunday night, the store was closed, and the group of us were seated on the circle of padded folding chairs I’d set up in the community events space.
“Can we dispense with the roll call tonight?” Fiona Finch asked.
“I’m sorry, Fiona,” said Professor J. Brainert Parker, “but as this association’s secretary, it’s my duty to take accurate minutes.”
“Then mark me down as present and let’s get on with it,” said Bud.
“Cranberry Street Hardware is represented,” said Brainert, typing away on his laptop.
“And me,” said Fiona Finch with an annoyed sigh.
“Finch’s Inn,” said Brainert. “That notorious den of iniquity that spawned today’s raid by the federales.”
“Not funny,” Fiona huffed.
“Cooper Family Bakery,” said Milner.
“Sorry about the Oreos, everyone,” Linda blurted.
Milner turned to his wife. “I already explained we were out of baked goods.”
“I know, Mil. But Oreos?”
“What’s wrong with Oreos?” said Milner defensively. “Everyone likes Oreos.”
“You could have at least bought Entenmann’s,” she told him. “Or even Pepperidge Farms.”
“Everyone likes Oreos,” repeated Milner. He turned to the group. “Don’t you all like Oreos?”
Everyone generally stared a moment. Scattershot nods followed.
Brainert cleared his throat. “Let’s stay on topic, shall we?”
Sadie rolled her eyes. “Didja type in Buy the Book?” she asked. “I mean, since you’re sitting in it.”
“Yes, of course,” said Brainert testily. “And my own business concern has been logged as well.”
Brainert was one of four investors who, about eleven months back, had bought the old two-screen Movie Town Theater at the end of Cranberry Street. The place had been closed for years, and its ripped seats, filthy floor, and cracked candy counter had long been in dire need of repair. No bank would lend them the money to refurbish, so the renovations were slow-going.