Seymour took a loud slurp from his steaming cup and smacked his lips. “Man, I needed that!”
“Late night?” I asked, enviously sniffing the aroma of his freshly brewed French roast.
“The haunted house is open right up until midnight through Halloween. I parked my ice cream truck on Green Apple Road at noon on Sunday and got home at one A.M. Cleaned up, though.”
One of the things Seymour did with his Jeopardy! winnings was purchase an ice cream truck. It had been his lifelong dream to become Quindicott’s one and only roving ice cream man (go figure), which he now was on evenings and weekends. The other thing he did with his prize money was purchase old pulps, usually collector’s items, which is why Buy the Book counted him as one of its most consistent (and, yes, at times, compulsive) customers.
After another gulp of coffee, Seymour gave me the fish eye. “Man you look wasted, Pen,” he observed, ever the charmer. “You got insomnia?”
“I had a late night, too. Sadie and I drove over to Newport and bought some items from a collector.”
Set wide apart, Seymour’s blue eyes gave his regular features an air of perpetual surprise. Now those eyes bulged like a hungry bug. “More swag! What’cha got? Anything hot and collectable?”
I mentioned the Phelps editions of Poe. Seymour shrugged.
“We also acquired an 1807 first edition of Thomas Paine’s An Examination of the Passages in the New Testament.”
Seymour’s bugging eyes quickly glazed over. “Not for me. But I’m sure your pal Brainert will wet his academic pants over them. I’m more interested in that 1931 issue of Oriental Stories your aunt has been tracking down for me. Any sign of it?”
“Not yet. We’ll keep you posted.”
Seymour glanced at his watch. “Well, it’s starting time for the day job. Back to the stamp mines. If I’m late again my supervisor will go postal for sure. See ya later.”
With Seymour gone, I glanced at the crowd around Cooper’s one last time. If anything, the line had gotten longer. Doughnutless and filled with sugary longing, I headed back to brew my own pot of coffee and open the store.
WHEN I UNLOCKED the front door at ten o’clock, there were a few more customers than I expected. They were mothers, mostly, out and about after sending their little ones off to school. They finally saw some quiet time ahead and were buying up new releases.
I rang up purchases, including Sue Keenan’s new Cornwell, and sorted the mail, pointedly ignoring the three cardboard boxes of books neatly stacked behind the counter—the books we’d brought back from Peter Chesley’s mansion in Newport the night before. At quarter to eleven, a local youth named Garfield Platt reported for duty.
“You’re early,” I noted.
Garfield shrugged and hung up his coat. “I left an hour early on Friday, remember Mrs. McClure? I have an hour to make up.”
“Good. The first thing you can do is carry those boxes to the storage room. Put them next to Sadie’s desk. And be careful, those volumes are quite valuable.”
“Can do, Mrs. McClure.”
Young Mr. Platt was our newest employee, hired because Mina could only work weekends due to her college classes. Unlike Mina, Garfield had disliked college and cut the experience short. He returned to Quindicott, and moved back in with his parents. He claimed he was making some money off a Web site he ran out of his home—doing what, I didn’t ask, nor did he volunteer that information—but Garfield needed more capital to move into his own place, so he worked two part-time gigs. He spent weekday afternoons and early evenings at Buy the Book, and the rest of the night doing odd jobs at the twenty-four-hour gas station out on the highway, finishing up at two A.M. The kid was motivated, I had to give him that.
Though Quindicott was a small town, I’d never met and didn’t know Garfield’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Edmund Platt. They didn’t attend our church and they didn’t mix socially with anyone I knew in the community, though they’d lived here for over two decades.
Garfield wasn’t as reclusive as his folks; in fact, he was outgoing, well-spoken, and possessed a wry sense of humor that made him fun to have in the store. Sadie and I had figured that out the day of his impromptu job interview.
It was a breezy autumn day in early September, a little over a month ago. I’d hung a HELP WANTED sign at the same time that I placed the new Dan Brown hardcover in the “hot picks” slot in the store window display.
Garfield blew in with a gust of wind fifteen minutes later. The cool, dry air had bristled his curly brown hair and spiked his full beard. He stood an inch shorter than me—though taller than my bantamweight aunt—with a broad shouldered build and a bright, direct gaze.
“My name is Garfield Platt. I’ve come to apply for the job,” he announced, reaching out to shake my hand.
Garfield’s voice rose a notch on the last word, so I thought he was asking a question. That miscommunication, and his lunge across the counter to shake my hand rattled me.
“Excuse me?” I replied, stepping backward.
“I think he’s applying for the job,” Sadie explained.
Garfield nodded, eyes unblinking. “I’d like to work here, if you’ll hire me. I have no experience and I just flunked out of college. But I read mysteries and I know authors, so I can help your customers find the titles they’re looking for. And I can count and make change. Seeing this is a commercial enterprise, I’d say that’s a plus.”
My aunt and I exchanged glances.
“Have you ever worked retail? Do you have experience dealing with the public?” Sadie asked.
Garfield stared blankly. “None at all.”
“Can you use a cash register?” I asked.
For a moment Garfield had that look of a deer before it ends up on the hood of a fast-moving car. Then he cleared his throat.
“Look,” he said. “I have no useful skills—beyond computers, which are kind of like my hobby. I know my prospects don’t seem bright at the moment. In fact, I probably look like a total loser to you and everybody else. Even my parents aren’t proud of me, although, compared to my ex-con brother, I’m golden. But I’ll learn fast, show up on time, and won’t bug you for a raise once a month, so what do you think?”
Sadie and I burst out laughing—and hired the guy on the spot.
“These books smell old,” Garfield observed as he lifted the final box. “Do you think they could be older than the Apple Mac I use for a doorstop?”
“Yes,” I replied. “But, unlike your doorstop, I’m betting books will never become an obsolete tool; otherwise, we’re both out of a job.”
“Do you want me to unpack them?”
“Sure, Garfield. That would be great. Just stack them on Sadie’s desk. But—”
“I know, I know. I’ll be real careful.”
Garfield was only gone a moment when I heard the chimes ringing over the front door. My oldest friend, J. Brainert Parker, rushed to the counter where I stood.
“Pen! I understand you’ve got a Phelps Poe in the store. Why didn’t you inform me at once?” His voice was practically shrill with excitement.
“Ah,” I said calmly, “so your mail was delivered.” J. Brainert Parker (the J. was for Jarvis, a name no one dared call him on pain of a polysyllabic tongue-lashing) was an assistant professor of English Literature at St. Francis College. Like me, he was in his early thirties. He was also exceedingly well read.