Big Brother is watching . . . look busy.
—Brandon Boyd
THAT EVENING, BUD Napp banged the ball-peen hammer he used as a gavel, calling to order the official meeting of the Quindicott Business Owners Association.
I always thought of Bud as an even-tempered man, but tonight the lanky hardware store owner slammed the tool with enough force to threaten the collapse of the folding table Sadie had set up for the officers.
Beside him at the shaky dais, Fiona Finch primly stood and began reading the minutes of our last meeting. She didn’t get far before Bud cut her off—
“Our first and only order of business is that confounded Big Brother security system that’s bleeding us dry!”
Loud applause filled our Community Events space. Tonight’s meeting was packed, much larger than our usual gathering. But the situation was dire, the stakes high. Bud himself characterized tonight’s assembly as “a first step in the liberation of the town’s business community from regulatory oppression!”
Of course, we were all aware that Bud was politicking—part of his campaign to unseat Councilwoman Marjorie Binder-Smith—and he’d certainly chosen a popular cause.
Since the installation of the sidewalk security system, most of the merchants on Cranberry Street had been fined, for one infraction or another. Now the business owners took turns rising to voice complaints against Usher Security, the city council, and the local police.
In the middle of Dan Donovan’s tale of a broken bottle that led to a costly citation for “a hazardous sidewalk condition,” my ghost blew up.
Mother Machree! When are these clodhoppers going to stop jawboning around the cracker barrel? We need to address the serious business of murder!
The entire roomed shivered with Jack’s frigid blast.
“Sadie, can you please turn up the heat?” someone called.
“It’s a drafty room, and that’s that,” she shot back.
Bud winked at his girl. “We’re New Englanders! We can take it!”
I gritted my teeth—to keep them from chattering. Jack, will you please turn down the deep freeze? My lips are turning blue.
Your pretty lips are the only reason I’m sticking around.
There’s more reason than that, and you know it. I already told you, after this big meeting is over, a smaller group is staying behind to discuss the death of Emma Hudson . . .
Before the meeting, I’d sent out texts to the core Quibblers and asked them to stay late for a short session of literary detection. When I mentioned the subject was Shades of Leather, most responded with unprecedented enthusiasm. And Seymour was thrilled to learn he’d have a sizable audience for what he felt was a huge announcement.
Okay, the ghost grumbled. But if I have to listen to these unwashed rubes and chawbacons much longer, I’m scaring this bunch out of this joint and onto Cornpone Street—
“That’s enough!” I said—out loud. Whoops.
Linda Cooper-Logan glanced at me strangely. Sheepishly, I displayed my smartphone as if I’d been using it, shook my head, and mouthed the word “kids.”
She nodded knowingly.
Thirty minutes later, J. Brainert Parker arrived. Fresh from his Faculty Affairs Committee meeting, he was dressed in his usual preppy finery. Just as I’d noticed on Saturday, his tasteful, tailored clothes were hanging off his waning physique—and my worries about my old friend surfaced again.
From his spot many seats away, Seymour noticed the professor’s arrival, but he didn’t appear worried. The expression on his grinning face was pure excitement. He even shot me a double thumbs-up.
You still there, Jack? I asked, checking my watch a short time later.
Am I still awake—that’s the question!
You better be. This business talk is almost over.
Good, said the ghost. Then we can get down to the business of solving a murder.