I wake up every morning . . . and look at the obituary page. If my name is not on it, I get up.
—Benjamin Franklin (attributed)
IT WAS EIGHT A.M., and after the dreamy night with Jack, I was reluctant to roll out of bed. But, as they say, life goes on. At least, for me.
Come to think of it, it went on for the ghost, too—if you count his afterlife.
On my way to the kitchen to feed an insistent Bookmark her second breakfast, I passed through the living room. Spencer and Amy were already up, and so deep into their Avenging Angel video game world that they didn’t notice me.
In the kitchen, I plied our “badass” marmalade-striped, mouse-killing kitty with kibbles, brewed a strong pot of Irish tea, and felt Jack’s absence.
“Do you guys want some breakfast?” I called.
“No, thank you, Mrs. McClure,” Amy replied. “We’ve already eaten.”
“Yeah, Aunt Sadie made us oatmeal with walnuts and maple syrup. There’s more on the stove.”
“Where is Aunt Sadie?” I asked, and wasn’t surprised by the answer.
“Mr. Napp picked her up in his van,” Spencer called. “She’s having breakfast with him at the bakery. Then they’re meeting us at church—hey, what are you doing?!”
“I’m making tea!”
“Not you, Mom! I was talking to Amy.”
Her precocious voice replied: “You can see very well what I’m doing, Spencer.”
“I can see you used up all of your spirits,” my son shot back. “What are you going to do if you get in trouble again?”
“I won’t,” Amy said with great confidence. “The gangsters think I’m dead, so they can’t see me anymore.”
“I guess that’ll work,” Spence said doubtfully, “but you better hit the next speakeasy to pump up your spirit strength, because you’re going to need it later . . .”
Though I would have preferred my son and his friend making better use of their time than playing a game for hours on end, they were having so much fun together that I hated to interrupt.
If the ghost were here now, I know what he’d say: everyone deserves vacation time. In my estimation, that would include Jack Shepard. He often disappeared after we shared a dream. Creating it appeared to drain his energies.
I’d like to think he was hitting a cosmic speakeasy for some “spirit strength,” too.
Suddenly, Amy screamed. I peeked into the living room just as Spencer was shaking his head.
“I warned you not to use all your spirit strength,” he said. “Now the gangsters know you’re alive, and they’re going to come for you, big-time.”
As the kids laughed together, I returned my attention to breakfast. Checking the covered pot on the stove, I found the oatmeal that Sadie had saved for me.
With a sigh, I dished out the single portion and sat down at the table, alone.
A SHORT TIME later, Sunday service was over and I stepped out of the church to find a brisk but sunny morning. While Bud Napp drove Sadie home, the kids and I walked back via Cranberry Street.
“Fresh air will do you good,” I told the kids, and they didn’t argue, especially since I promised we’d stop by Cooper Family Bakery.
As we strolled across the wide, grassy commons, my mobile phone vibrated. Once again, I hoped it was Amy’s mother returning my call. But it was Eddie Franzetti on the line.
“I have the contact information I promised you for Emma Hudson’s ex-husband. The man came into the station on his own about an hour ago.”
“How did your interview go?”
“Mr. Hudson was friendly enough, as the Newport set goes.”
“Wait. Philip Hudson is one of the Newport Hudsons?”
“I thought you knew.”
“I should have, considering the quality of that book collection.”
“Which I brought up right after I discussed the circumstances surrounding his ex-wife’s death. I told Mr. Hudson that your shop was interested in acquiring the collection of books in his ex-wife’s apartment, and he said he’s willing to take your call—”
“Great.”
“But in my opinion, you might want to hold off on contacting him for a few days.”
“Because?”
“He seemed pretty broken up, Pen, and he’s going to be busy making arrangements for Mrs. Hudson’s funeral.”
“Emma has no other family? Didn’t she and Mr. Hudson have children?”
“Uh, that would be a definite no,” Eddie replied in an odd, almost ironic way.
“Are you trying to tell me something?”
“No, nothing, Pen. It’s not my business to judge.”
Confused by that statement, I tried a more pointed question. “Does Mr. Hudson have an alibi?”
“Why would he need an alibi for an apparent suicide?”
“Because it’s not so apparent to me.”
That’s when Eddie told me where Philip Hudson was at the time of his ex-wife’s death—New York City. “He said he drove back late last night, Pen, arriving in Millstone long after Emma’s body was found.”
I asked who could verify that statement, but Eddie was done answering my questions. He suggested I get the rest of the news from the Sunday paper.
I thought he was being cute, so after I scribbled down Mr. Hudson’s contact info, I thanked him and ended the call—just in time to buy Amy Ridgeway her first taste of Quindicott’s famous Cooper Family doughnuts.