“Indeed she is, Mrs. McClure.”
My aunt suddenly cut in. “Let’s not be so formal, Professor Spinner. Call her Penelope. And I’m Sadie.”
Spinner turned to offer his hand to my aunt. “Ah, the owner of those rare volumes.”
“You’re talking about the Phelps books, I presume?”
“You bet,” Brainert answered. “Nelson is something of an expert.”
Spinner modestly waved off Brainert’s compliment. “I’m no expert, truly. But I do know a bit about Eugene Phelps.”
I managed to dust myself off and lose the shapeless smock I’d donned while doing the store’s housekeeping. As I worried whether my powder-blue sweater and jeans were presentable, I realized Spinner had managed to come off as warm and intimidating at the same time—no easy feat…then again, maybe it was just me.
Stop fussing, baby, Jack commanded. I’ve told you plenty of times…you’re whistle bait. No man alive wouldn’t want you heating his sheets.
“For pity’s sake, Jack…” I tried to will my cheeks from flaming. “Not now, please?”
Sure, honey, but why your heart’s beating twice its speed for Blondie here’s beyond me. The guy dresses well, but his expression’s got more sap than a maple tree.
“Not everyone’s as hard-boiled as you, you know.”
Sweetheart, strawberry jam would be more hard-boiled than this joker.
“Stow it, Jack!”
Stow it? What are you, on a nautical frequency now? Did you join the coast guard when I wasn’t looking?
“Jack…”
And another thing, why in hell is Bow Tie Boy wearing a peacoat? Last I checked he hadn’t joined the swabbie corp—yet in he waltzes wearing navy surplus, for cripe’s sake!
“Well, let’s see now,” Sadie said, making a show of glancing at her watch. “I’ll have to close the store and shut out the register.” She paused to give a theatrical sigh. “I’ll be along shortly, but Penelope can certainly take you back, get you started.”
“Well…I…I’m really not well-versed about the Phelps books,” I said, glaring at Sadie. She winked back!
“Nonsense,” she told me firmly. “Professor Spinner is the expert. That’s why he’s here. To tell us all about them.”
“Come on, Nelson. Let’s go,” Brainert said, impatiently charging forward.
Spinner followed Brainert through the archway, into the Community Events space, and presumably to the storage room beyond.
As I stepped around the counter to follow, Sadie lightly squeezed my arm and whispered, “I think you should be very nice to Professor Spinner.”
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing. For all I know, he’s married.”
Sadie shook her head. “There’s no ring on his finger, dear. And you really should pay more attention to things like that. You won’t always have me around to play matchmaker.”
“You can quit anytime.”
“Now, Pen, last night you were complaining that you had a better chance of being struck by lightning than meeting an available man around Quindicott. Professor Spinner looks available to me!”
“Well, the joke may be on both of us,” I replied. “He’s Brainert’s colleague, remember? Maybe Spinner’s gay, too.”
Sadie grinned, patted my arm. “Have fun finding out.”
I felt like a piece of undercooked meat being thrown to the lions. Clenching my fists, I walked through the archway to the events space. Only the emergency lights were glowing, so I paused (read: stalled) and turned on the ceiling lights.
“Come on, Pen, hurry up!” Brainert called. “The door’s locked.”
As the two men waited by the storeroom, I overheard Brainert reciting a blow-by-blow description of Rene Montour’s purchase earlier in the day.
My keys to the storeroom were bundled with a halfdozen others on a long chain connected to my belt. It wasn’t very attractive, I have to admit—looked like something a building supervisor in a New York apartment house would wear on his tool belt. But Spencer gave the chain to me last Christmas, and I found it surprisingly efficient.
While I fumbled for the right key, Brainert finished his story.
“So, Pen,” he said, “any more interest in the books?”
“Six calls this afternoon.”
Brainert blinked. “If they all show up in person to pick up their books, then Finch Inn is going to be booked solid. You ought to get a kickback from Fiona.”
“That’ll be the day.”
I pushed the door open, flicked on the lights. Sadie had made the back room presentable in anticipation of Spinner’s arrival. She’d briefly opened the back door to let in some fresh air and placed the Phelps editions on the desk, which had been cleared—the laptop moved up front. She’d even arranged folding chairs around the desk.
When Brainert saw the books, he smacked his lips as if he were anticipating a gourmet meal.
“May I?” Professor Spinner asked, simultaneously meeting my gaze and gesturing to the volumes.
“Of course.” I settled into a folding chair and watched him pick up Volume One. He slowly ran his hand down the spine and cover. I noticed his hands were nimble, his fingers long and elegant.
Brainert cocked an eyebrow. “Interesting that these books are all bound so differently—”
Spinner nodded. He was obviously observing just that.
“—I mean, considering they’re supposed to be uniform editions.”
“That’s because it took so long for Eugene Phelps to get the complete set out there,” Spinner noted, his eyes never leaving the book in his hand. “The man was editing and publishing the volumes, one at a time, over the span of decades. Poor Phelps set an impossible task for himself—it’s no wonder he failed.”
“I don’t understand,” Brainert said, sinking into the chair next to me and crossing his legs. “There are dozens of editions of Poe. What’s so challenging about putting one together?”
Spinner lifted a new book from the pile and stepped around the desk to face us, as if he were lecturing to a class. “There is, of course, no such thing as a complete Poe. Much of Poe’s journalism—his puzzles, anecdotes, contemporary observations, things of that nature—were written anonymously and lost in the reams of yellow journalism printed in Poe’s time. Phelps made a valiant effort to track down material he suspected had been written by Poe, but in the end many of the passages Phelps identified were discredited by more rigorous scholars and linguistic analysts who came later.”
Spinner’s pedagogical tone didn’t bother me in the least. I’d heard it a hundred times—from Brainert. He went into lecture mode at nearly every meeting of the Quindicott Business Owners Association (or, as my aunt called it, the Quibble Over Anything Gang). What was fascinating to me was Brainert’s reaction. It was obvious from his fidgeting that he didn’t like the tables being turned. As far as my friend was concerned, he was the professor and everyone else was the potential student.
On the other hand, these two were in the same department at St. Francis College, and I wondered if the specter of competition was rearing its ugly head.
You talking ’bout me again, baby?
“No, Jack. Another specter. Go back to sleep. I know this isn’t your thing.”
Sister, you got that right. I thought those mooks you had traipsing through here, hawking their dime novels were wearing, but these chattering skulls deserve an award for most tedious discussion in half a century. I’m beginning to wish I’d caught lead poisoning in a hardware store.