That’s when I realized two things—the man did vaguely resemble Peter Chesley and I had actually seen him before. He’d been in Buy the Book a few times. I couldn’t recall waiting on him, but I was certain he’d browsed our stacks.
“Give me one more minute,” he said.
Before I could respond, he spun around again, showing me his back as he spoke with the school secretary—some business about a substitute teacher’s paycheck. Then he asked what afternoon appointments followed mine. She ran down the list. Finally, he took a file from Ms. Jane’s hands and half turned toward me again.
“All right, Mrs. McClure, come in,” he said brusquely, waving for me to follow as he swiftly strode through his open office door.
He tossed his overcoat over a cluttered corner table and sat down behind his large desk. Immediately he began tapping on his computer keyboard; his fingers, I noticed, were sans ring—wedding or any other type. Ms. Jane was right. He wasn’t married.
The monitor sat at an angle and I could partially see the screen. He was scanning his e-mails, ignoring me.
The man hadn’t apologized for being late. Nor had he invited me to sit, but there were two chairs across from his desk, obviously meant for visitors. Both had stacks of files, books, and reports on them.
“Excuse me? May I move these?” I asked.
“Sure, just drop them anywhere,” he said waving his hand, not bothering to look up from his screen.
This Alvin’s got the manners of a goat.
“Can’t argue with you there, Jack.”
I picked up the heavy stack of books and reports and looked for a place to put them.
How about this bozo’s head?
“Easy, Jack. He looks like a very busy man. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt.”
On the other hand, as I nearly wrenched my back bending to set the pile carefully on the floor, I couldn’t help remembering how chivalrous Peter Chesley had been when Sadie and I had visited him.
The old man had been struggling to even walk when he’d led us to the seats next to his library’s fireplace, yet he’d remained standing by his wheelchair, refusing to sit until Sadie and I had first taken our seats. And, even though it must have been a painful effort, he’d insisted on helping us pack up the books we took with us.
I spoke up as I sat down. “Mr. Chesley, are you, by any chance, related to Peter Chesley, the retired Brown University professor?”
“He’s my uncle,” Chesley responded tonelessly. “Or rather, he was.”
It’s a cinch, Jack said. Manners skip a generation.
“You don’t seem very upset about it,” I bluntly told the principal.
That got his attention. He shifted away from the screen at last and focused hard on me. His eyes were blue—big, beautiful, electric blue. Obviously, he shared that line of DNA with his uncle. But not the expression, which was frosty as it peered at me, miles away from friendly. His eyes, however, weren’t what disturbed me the most; it was the body part located between them—
“Your nose is swollen,” I blurted out.
Claymore frowned. His hand automatically touching the puffy, discolored skin. “Accident. Up on the highway. It was hardly more than a fender bender but the airbag deployed. That’s why I’m late.”
I shifted uneasily, trying not to give away how disturbed I was by this claim. Just yesterday I had clobbered a well built masked man—
Right in his beezer! Jack finished for me.
“His what?”
His nose, his nose!
“Okay! Okay!” I silently told Jack. “But what if claymore here is telling the truth? I can’t swear the injury is fresh. What if he really was in a car accident?”
Look, baby, if this joker really was in an accident, then his boiler out there should have some sort of dent in it. A few scratches, at least. If it doesn’t, you know he’s playing you for a rube.
“Should I make an excuse, get up now and check?”
Don’t move your keister. Check the parking lot when you leave. Right now, you’ve got to conduct your interview—only don’t let the yegg know you’re interrogating him. Facts, baby, get me some facts.
I stalled to get my thoughts in order, pretending to cough and clear my throat. Finally, striving to keep my tone conversational, I said, “I knew your uncle. Not very well or anything, but that’s why I asked. And I’m very sorry about your loss.”
“Thanks, but I hadn’t seen the man in over twenty years.”
“Really? Why is that?”
Claymore shifted in his seat; the old leather chair creaked. “Uncle Peter was part of the Newport Chesleys. My side of the family lives in Millstone. Years ago, the two sides had a falling-out. You know how it is with family feuds?”
I nodded, as if commiserating, but my mind was racing. Millstone was the next town over. Like Quindicott, it was a far cry from Newport. In fact, as property values and incomes went, Millstone was even less affluent than Quindicott.
Ms. Jane had already said Claymore needed money, that he’d come back East to help his aging parents. If that were true, then Claymore’s side of the family must not have benefitted from any of the inheritance Peter’s side had received. But just how cut off were they?
“So you’ve never been to the family’s old estate near the ocean, Prospero House?” I asked.
“Not since I was very young. I remember it being fairly creepy.”
“Yes, well…I was just there—on the night your uncle died.” I eyeballed Claymore, trying to gauge his reaction, but the man just kept staring at me, stone-faced. “It looked like the mansion was falling down around his ears,” I added pointedly.
“Is that so? Well…like I said, Mrs. McClure, all I know about my uncle’s death is what I read in the papers.”
“But the papers didn’t say much of anything.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“Your uncle died falling down a flight of stairs. But he had severe arthritis and he told me and my aunt that he no longer climbed the stairs. He’d even moved his bedroom to the first floor.”
“That’s odd, but then…” He shrugged. “My uncle was sort of odd, as I recall.”
“So you haven’t been back long?” I asked.
“What do you mean? Back from lunch?”
“No, back here in Rhode Island. When I stopped by yesterday, Ms. Jane told me about your credentials. Very impressive. You went to St. Francis College, but then you moved away, went to California to get your doctorate and you stayed out west, right? You became a professor at a teacher’s college. So when exactly did you move back East? And what exactly have you been up to?”
Whoa, baby, slow down! You’re moving too fast!
The second Jack said it, I knew I’d messed up.
Claymore Chesley stiffened, then adjusted his tie. “What is this? A job interview?” He laughed to undercut his discomfort, then he glanced at his watch. “Didn’t you come here to discuss your son?”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. I was just curious. You’re one of Buy the Book’s customers—I mean, I’ve seen you in our store—and I like to know about my customers. It helps me better serve them.”
“I moved back to Millstone last February, Mrs. McClure,” he said curtly. “And I browse lots of bookstores, but I buy them on the Internet. Now let’s discuss your son….” He scanned the file Ms. Jane had handed to him and leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “Spencer, right? What’s the problem?”
“Jack,” I silently wailed, “what do I do?”
Talk about your son. Set the man at ease. Make him think that you’re not grilling him…then go back to grilling him!