I noticed Spencer had left his backpack on the floor. It was partially unzipped and I peeked inside. On top of his books was the Reader’s Notebook, the one Spencer had worked so long and hard on all summer. It was completely destroyed. Every page had been shredded.
I pulled it out and pieces of parchment fluttered to the floor. As I pushed the pieces back together, I was able to make out the scripted letters—
Quindicott Elementary School
First Place Award
Reader of the Year
Spencer McClure
CHAPTER 10
Expert Opinion
The truth is, I am heartily sick of this life and of the nineteenth century in general. I am convinced that every thing is wrong. Besides, I am anxious to know who will be President in 2045. As soon, therefore, as I have a shave and a cup of coffee, I shall just step over to Ponnonner’s and get embalmed for a couple of hundred years.
—Edgar Allan Poe, “Some Words with a Mummy,”
Broadway Journal, 1845
SADIE DROPPED THE receiver into its cradle, then dropped herself into a chair. “Goodness. That man nearly talked my ear off!”
“Another Poe collector?”
Sadie nodded.
I glanced at my watch. It was now just after seven P.M. Spencer often came into the store in the evening, but tonight he remained in front of the TV, brooding.
Over dinner, I gently told my son about the call I’d received from his friend’s mother. He reddened and tried to shrug off his being bullied as “no big deal,” but I wasn’t letting this go. Having his Reader’s Notebook and first place certificate ripped up was a big deal, and I was going to do the dealing.
I made a huge fuss over his winning first prize for the most books read over the summer, and told him he was getting a big reward. I would take him and a group of his friends to the haunted house on Green Apple Road and treat them to ice cream. This cheered him up considerably.
But then I told him that I’d be going to his school the next morning. He begged me to reconsider, but I was resolved. A talk with the principal was in order, whether my son liked it or not.
Meanwhile, as incredible as it seemed, Sadie had fielded five more long-distance calls inquiring about the Phelps editions. I walked over to my aunt, who’d collapsed into one of the overstuffed armchairs at the end of the aisle I was restocking.
The comfy chairs, like the antique floor and table lamps and oak bookcases, were part of the renovations I’d instigated when I first went into partnership with Sadie. Out went the ancient fluorescent ceiling fixtures and old metal shelves, in came the Shaker-style rockers, author appearances, and twenty-first-century book-selling tools.
I’d overhauled the inventory, too, adding plenty of mysteries and true crime to give us our theme, but Sadie had insisted that we keep the store’s original rare book business—and, brother, was I glad she did.
“With word of mouth like this,” I said, eyeballing our backlist levels on McCrumb, MacDonald, Mailer, and Marlowe, “we don’t need to advertise those Poe books. The collectors are coming to us.”
Sadie nodded. “News never traveled this fast in the book-collecting world that I can recall.” With a tissue, she cleaned her glasses, which dangled from her silver chain. “Between cell phones and the Internet, things move at the speed of light! I feel like I’m suddenly in the world of high finance, the way that last caller pressured me!”
“You held out, though?” I replied.
“Yes, I certainly want to hear what Brainert’s expert has to say. But he better stop by the shop soon. I’ve managed to fend off everyone so far, but it hasn’t been easy. I’m sorry to say that last fellow actually became verbally abusive. He was convinced I was simply holding out for a better price.”
Garfield, who’d finished restocking the new release table, scratched his full beard. “That’s because he’s probably a corporate goon. They all think you’re ripping them off because they do it.”
Junior here’s a real Confucius, Jack groused. He knows a lot, for someone who’s done bupkus.
“He’s young,” I silently replied. “Garfield likes to think he’s sticking it to the man.”
Lamb chop, I’m not reading your frequency.
“My frequency?…Oh! You mean my slang? Well here’s a bulletin, Jack, sometimes I don’t read yours either.”
What’s not to get? You’re the one who claims to be a fan of these fantasyland detective stories you peddle, not me.
I noticed Garfield retrieving his jacket from the store closet. “Gotta go, Mrs. McClure. Time for the night shift at the gas station.”
Sadie shook her head. “When do you sleep, young man?”
“Sleep! Who needs it?” Garfield smiled and waved. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Ah, youth,” she murmured as she rose and stretched. She’d already brought the store’s laptop up front. While she took a seat behind the counter and read the store’s e-mails, I continued checking our backlist levels. It took me about twenty minutes to finish—as well as clean up some muddy footprints tracked between Mickey Spillane and Sara Paretsky. That’s when the front door chimed.
“Penelope?”
I recognized Brainert’s voice. “Hey,” I called, standing up and pushing the hair out of my face, now damp with perspiration. I crossed the store and rounded the corner of a bookcase to find my friend walking up to the counter. He was wearing the same salmon-colored V-neck and white button-down he’d had on this morning, save for the addition of a bow tie. He’d also exchanged the J. Crew wind breaker for a heavier J. Crew peacoat—and he’d brought another man with him.
The newcomer was tall with broad athletic shoulders. He had the sort of late-season tan you see on die-hard surfers or golfers with second homes in Palm Beach. His hair was sun-kissed golden, and he wore it in a boyish twentysomething mop, which suited him even though his attractive weathered features said, “definitely over thirty.” Then his electric blue eyes focused on me, and (though I am loath to admit something like this) I actually stopped breathing for a few seconds.
Brainert stepped forward. “Penelope, I’d like to introduce you to Associate Professor Nelson Spinner, Department of English, St. Francis College.”
Nelson Spinner clearly eschewed the preppy look favored by Brainert and most of the other faculty members at St. Francis. He wore a beautifully tailored charcoal suit with a crisp, blue shirt and matching Windsor-knotted tie that perfectly matched his penetrating eyes. A fine, black tailored overcoat was draped on his arm.
“Mrs. McClure, Professor Parker has told me so much about you,” he said, extending his hand. His voice was pleasant, his grip firm but gentle, and I felt his hand linger in mine a beat longer than necessary.
“You’re not from around here,” I said, detecting no tell-tale signs of dropped R’s and drawn-out vowels.
“Bucks County, Pennsylvania,” Spinner replied with a polite smile.
“Nelson did his graduate work in Philly,” Brainert noted.
“Really? You didn’t have the good fortune of studying with Camille Paglia, did you?”
Spinner’s smile warmed. “Actually, I attended the University of Pennsylvania and Professor Paglia is part of the faculty at the University of the Arts. But I did attend quite a few of her public lectures, and I found the experience quite edifying.”
I nodded in agreement. “I saw her speak in Boston a few years ago and envied her students. I wish we could lure her here for a talk on the femme fatale in popular culture. I’m sure I could pack this place with people who’d buy up her backlist. She’s a wonderful speaker, isn’t she?”