Journalism consists largely in saying “Lord James is dead” to people who never knew Lord James was alive.
—G. K. Chesterton
BACK HOME, I settled the kids upstairs and swapped my church clothes for comfortable slacks and a sweater.
We opened late on Sunday, and it was nearly that time, but I still needed a few minutes of privacy with Sadie to update her on the Emma Hudson saga. Unfortunately, when I arrived downstairs in our sunny shop, she already had company—
“That crazy old woman could have been a star on Hoarders,” Vinny Nardini proclaimed.
I’d known Vinny since junior high. In his brown Dependable Delivery Service uniform, the big man with his bark-colored beard reminded me of an Ent, those walking trees in Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. The comparison was fitting since he carried nearly every book shipped to us from all the major publishers. With deliveries seven days a week, that added up to a lot of trees moving around in their literary afterlife.
“Hi-yoooo, Penelope!” Big Vinny’s megaphone voice filled the shop. “This young lady and I were discussing the latest local scuttlebutt—”
Vinny always referred to Sadie as “young lady,” even though she was twice his age. (Sadie never minded.)
“What do you think, Pen?”
“About what?”
“That hoarder on the other side of town,” Sadie replied.
“Hoarder?”
“Died in a horrible accident,” Vinny said solemnly.
My aunt displayed the front page of today’s Quindicott Bulletin.
HOARDER DIES IN FATAL BUILDING MISHAP
Vinny’s finger tapped the headline. “Teddy Brenner at the drugstore thinks the old building was compromised by the weight of all that junk the woman collected.”
Sadie nodded. “In his editorial, Elmer Crabtree called on the city council to hire more building inspectors.” She closed the newspaper. “The poor woman was probably squirreling away old trash and magazines, knickknacks, broken appliances, and goodness knows what else.”
“Hiring new inspectors is a solid idea,” Vinny said. “My friend Joe Walker, a volunteer firefighter, says lots of buildings on that road are one camel-back straw away from collapse.”
I scratched my head. “I know what ‘collapse’ means, but what exactly is a ‘building mishap’?”
“The article was vague, but it sounds like the hoarder fell when her balcony gave way under the weight of her junk.”
“Whoa, hold on, Vinny. You said the victim fell off a balcony? What’s the name of this hoarder?”
“Withheld by the Quindicott Police Department,” Sadie said.
“When and where did this ‘mishap’ occur?”
“Yesterday afternoon on the west side,” Vinny said. “That big, rundown Victorian on Pine Tree—”
“Pine Tree Avenue?” I cried.
“That’s right.”
“Let me see that!”
Sadie handed me the paper. I scanned the article and clutched my head.
“Only in the fevered imagination of Elmer Crabtree does owning a valuable collection of rare first editions constitute hoarding! And who is this anonymous source Elmer keeps quoting?”
Vinny shrugged. “They’re anonymous.”
“As usual!”
Half the town knew Elmer’s “anonymous sources” came from messages left on his answering machine. Either that or City Councilwoman Marjorie Binder-Smith, especially when the subject of the article involved a pet project she was pushing or a scheme to tax local businesses, usually both. And as usual—
“Elmer didn’t get one single fact straight!”
I really shouldn’t have been surprised. Elmer Crabtree, the eighty-something editor in chief of the Quindicott Bulletin, was not known for his high journalistic standards.
Elmer wasn’t even a journalist by profession. He was an entrepreneur who created the paper to supplement his coupon-printing business. The way he figured it, he could peddle ad space to the same local merchants for whom he printed coupons and circulars. Of course, that meant he had to sell the paper. So, every few days, Elmer would publish a sensational story more in the tradition of the National Enquirer than the Boston Globe.
Vinny rubbed his beard. “So what really happened, Pen? It sure sounds like you know something Elmer doesn’t.”
I knew Vinny wanted me to dish. The smaller the town, the less that went on, and the more folks gossiped about what did. But I was unwilling to feed that mill any further. Declaring the store was about to open, I focused on our delivery instead.
Stacked on his dolly were four boxes of books for the Leeds signing. A fifth box replenished our supply of Shades of Leather—now in its eighth printing. Four more boxes held a variety of steady selling backlist books.
After Vinny said good-bye, Sadie and I finally had some privacy, and I told her what I knew about Emma Hudson, the tragedy of her death, and the treasure trove of first editions in her possession. I finished by proposing my idea.
“If I can get her ex-husband to have dinner with me, would you come along?”
“Sure. I’ll bring Bud, too. That should make Mr. Hudson more comfortable—having another older gentleman at the table. It will feel more sociable, as well.”
“Good idea.”
“Emma’s death is a terrible tragedy, I must admit.”
“Eddie thinks we should wait to contact Philip Hudson. He said the man was pretty broken up, and he may not be ready to speak with us.”
“That’s up to Mr. Hudson, Pen, don’t you think?”
“I suppose.”
She gave me a wise smile. “You know I’m no stranger to estate sales. I admit death is a delicate subject, and one must be respectful, but life goes on—and in this business, the early bookworm gets the book.”
“You’re right. That collection is valuable. We shouldn’t wait.”
“From your description, we’d have to take out a second mortgage to buy it outright.”
“How about a consignment deal?”
Sadie nodded. “That would be best for us. Do you think he’d go for it?”
“I can certainly try to charm him into it.”
The word charm brought back an unsettling image—that smarmy Henri Leroi, the duplicitous ex-husband from Jack’s past.
I did plan to question Mr. Hudson about the death of his ex-wife. But I honestly didn’t suspect him of being anything like that crazy character in Jack’s dream. At this point, I found it hard to suspect him of foul play, either.
After all, Eddie said Mr. Hudson was in New York at the time. And he mentioned how upset the man was over the news of his ex’s death. The poor old guy.
Well, like Sadie said, it was up to him to decline our invitation to dinner. So, while Sadie opened the store to waiting customers, I went to our back office and called Mr. Philip Gordon Hudson of the Newport, Rhode Island, Hudsons.
He answered on the first ring.
I was ready with a string of apologies for bothering a grieving man, but there was no need. His enthusiastic response disarmed me.
“Mrs. McClure! Deputy Chief Franzetti said you might call. I’m so glad you did.”
His voice sounded cultured and warm—and surprisingly upbeat. Still, I felt bad about calling so soon. “I’m sorry to trouble you at this painful and difficult time—”
“Never mind that. I understand you’re interested in acquiring my late father’s book collection?”
“Yes, but I thought—”
“You thought it belonged to Emma? Technically it was Emma’s, but the collection was gathered by my father . . . I’m afraid it’s all quite complicated.”
“If the situation is in limbo, we can speak another time.”
“No time like the present! But I prefer to meet face-to-face.”
“How about dinner?”
“Perfect. Are you free tonight? Say eight o’clock? My friends tell me there’s a delightful restaurant in your town.”
“Yes, Chez Finch.”
“Then I’ll make reservations for us.”
“My aunt and co-owner, Sadie Thornton, would also be involved in any purchase.”
“Bring her, then. The more the merrier! And feel free to invite your significant other.”
Oh, I’ll be there, buddy. Make book on it!
It was Jack, speaking up for the first time since I crawled out of bed this morning. I couldn’t stop my smile. Hello, Jack.
Good morning, sweetheart. Miss me?
“I won’t have an escort for dinner,” I informed Mr. Hudson, “but I’ll be accompanied by Ms. Thornton and her friend, Mr. Budd Napp, a local businessman.”
“Delightful. Eight o’clock. And dinner is on me.” Without a good-bye, Philip Hudson ended the call.
I exhaled. “That was easy.”
Too easy, Jack said. And I didn’t hear any “Hearts and Flowers” playing. He wasn’t even acting the grieving widower, never mind actually grieving.
“Well, they were ex-spouses. I suspect he’s gotten over the pain of their breakup.”
So, you’re assuming their divorce was a civilized affair with a shake of a hand and a fond farewell? Not in my experience.
“Your experience was as a PI. Your files are filled with jobs catching Cheating Charlies.”
Don’t forget the Bamboozling Bettys!
“According to Eddie, Hudson has an alibi for the time of his ex-wife’s death. And why would he want to murder her, anyway? The woman was already out of his life.”
Your husband’s dead and buried. Is he out of your life?
“Point taken. But last night, you talked about motive and opportunity. Eddie would argue that Mr. Hudson didn’t have opportunity. He was in New York. And what about motive?”
That would depend on the divorce settlement. If the ex–Mrs. Hudson ended up with a few pricey books, and Mr. Hudson is already rollin’ in lettuce, there’d be no reason to push the button on her. But if she walked away with the deed to Mr. Hudson’s farm, it’s a whole different ball game.
“Mr. Hudson did say the situation was complicated.”
Then you’re going to have to un-complicate it by prying all the juicy details out of the old-timer.
“Easier said than done. The last thing he may want to do is talk about his dead ex-wife. How do I get him to open up?”
Turn on the charm. Remember, he’s a lonely old geezer with money. You’re young, carefree, and quite the looker. So give him something to look at.