I just met the swellest dame . . . She smacked me in the kisser.
—The Glass Key, 1942, adapted from the novel by Dashiell Hammett
“BRAINERT’S FINE,” ANNOUNCED Seymour, still wearing his postal service uniform. “I can’t say the same for his Acura. But he wouldn’t have wrapped his car around a tree if Brainpan wasn’t as drunk as a skunk.”
“Rubbish,” huffed the professor, his three-piece suit uncharacteristically rumpled.
“That’s why you didn’t call the cops,” Seymour continued. “You were worried about the results of a Breathalyzer test. If the insurance company got wind that you were drunk, that Aussie gecko would definitely raise your rates.”
“Drunk!” sputtered the indignant professor. “I’ll have you know I had one drink. A single glass of sparkling rosé at the faculty gathering.”
“One glass that you remember,” Seymour scoffed. “But everyone knows winos are susceptible to blackouts.”
If you were meeting them for the first time, you’d never guess that Seymour and Brainert were lifelong friends. The way they verbally sparred, “frenemies” seemed like a more accurate description. But despite their differences in educational background and career choices, they were two peas in a pod, and I knew from long experience they would do anything to help each other—and me and Sadie.
“Thank goodness you’re okay,” I cried, hurrying out from behind the counter. “Sadie and I were worried.”
Brainert endured my hug, followed by Sadie’s.
Don’t squeeze him too hard,” Jack cracked. Your pal looks like he’s gone ten rounds, then got knocked out of the ring.
The ghost was right. Brainert’s suit jacket had been twisted by the seat belt shoulder strap and torn at the seam of his left arm. The top button was missing from his vest and the poor man’s tie was deconstructing before my eyes.
There were injuries as well. An angry bruise peeked out from under his mouse-colored bangs, and scuff marks marred both cheeks, making them hot to the touch and ruddy red.
“It’s from that bloody airbag,” he groused, shaking off my attempt to clean the head wound with a tissue.
“My goodness, what happened?” Sadie asked.
“Simple,” Seymour said. “Brainert was crocked, and he cracked up.”
“I was not ‘crocked,’ ” Brainert insisted with air quotes around the offending adjective. “One glass of wine at a faculty meeting wouldn’t inebriate anyone. One glass!”
I was surprised that Brainert—who was practically a teetotaler—was drinking at all, and I said so.
“I don’t particularly enjoy imbibing, Pen. But our new dean of the arts . . . well, she’s something of a wine connoisseur. She brings in specially selected bottles—tells us all about their goûts de terroirs—and acts quite miffed when any of the staff refuses a glass.”
“Since when do you care if you offend anyone?” Seymour demanded. “You offend me all the time.”
“The dean is quite a find for the university. Rhodes Scholar, Educator of the Year, the President’s Committee on the Arts and the Humanities, for pity’s sake. All those accolades make her a force to be reckoned with.”
Brainert sighed. “Dr. Irwin, the head of the campus chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous, politely refused wine at the last meeting with a gentle suggestion that alcohol not be served at future gatherings. Suddenly, all of his classes are scheduled for eight a.m. next semester.”
“But not you.” Seymour shook his head. “You caved for an extra hour of sleep. Was it worth wrapping your brand-new car around a defenseless oak in Prescott Woods?”
“Be specific,” Brainert countered. “I hit a tree. The car is hardly wrapped around it. And that tree happened to be an ash, not an oak—and it appeared to be dead already, so no harm done, excepting to my vehicle. Anyway, I only had the accident because I was driven off the road by a careless maniac who sideswiped my car.”
“Well, I was at the accident scene and I didn’t see any maniac,” Seymour replied. “Just you and your car and the dead ash tree.”
“That’s because the woman who ran me off the road kept on going!” Brainert was hopping mad now. “Why, she didn’t even stop to see if I was injured. The driver simply continued on her reckless, merry way—”
“Like a bat out of hell?” Seymour eyed his friend skeptically.
“An albino bat.”
We all stared at him.
“Fine, don’t laugh.” Brainert waved his hand. “My poor attempt at humor.”
Seymour scratched his head. “I don’t get it, Brainpan. What’s funny about a white bat?”
“Not a real bat, Mailman. Don’t you see? It’s a metaphor. The van was white.”
My breath caught. “You were hit by a white van? Driven by a woman?”
“A big van, definitely white. You can see its paint on my car where she hit me. And I am fairly sure it was a woman behind the wheel.”
“And the license plate? Was it from out of state?”
Brainert shrugged, then winced and rubbed his shoulder. “It all happened so fast I didn’t get a look at the plate.”
He eyed me suspiciously. “Why all the questions, Pen?”
I didn’t tell him that I suspected the van that hit his car was Norma’s. Jack Shepard was already convinced.
I told you, Penny. Norma breezed, now she’s just a memory.
“Can you describe the driver?” I pressed, ignoring Jack.
“Slender, middle-aged, with short brown hair—I think,” Brainert replied before explaining, “I didn’t get a good look at the hair, since she was wearing a baseball cap. The driver was looking into the rearview mirror instead of the road. I suspect that’s why the vehicle drifted into my lane and came at me.”
Brainert shot Seymour an icy look. “So, as you can see, the accident had nothing to do with my meager imbibing of the sparkling grape.”
“Where did this happen, exactly?” I asked.
“Near the junction with the fenced-in firefighting tower, right where the woods begin to get thick.”
“That’s the junction to Millstone.”
“It’s a lousy way to go to Millstone,” Seymour noted, drawing on his mailman expertise. “Those twisting and turning back roads will get you there, eventually. But the highway zips you to Old Mill in half the time and a third of the mileage.”
“That’s true,” I replied. “But the police aren’t as likely to patrol those back roads looking for a white van.”
That’s when I broke the news about the theft at the Finch Inn. I explained how Norma had become a suspect, which was why I thought the van that struck Brainert’s car might have been driven by Norma in flight to her sister’s place.
A curious introduction, since Brainert did not recall ever meeting the woman before. Seymour was passing acquainted with Norma, since he and his ice cream truck were the reason Norma had come to Quindicott in the first place.
My aunt Sadie knew Norma better than any of us, and she was as stunned as Fiona. I wasn’t surprised that my aunt took the same stubborn stance about Norma’s innocence as the proprietor of the Finch Inn.
“Eddie Franzetti is completely off track,” Sadie insisted. “Norma is such a sweet woman. Crusty, sure. Saucy, too. But she knew about books—and the kind of people who love them.”
“Wait a minute,” Brainert said, surprised. “Are you saying she worked here?”
Sadie hesitated before answering. “One day a week Norma . . . helped us out.”
Brainert frowned at my aunt’s careful choice of words. “What do you mean by that exactly? She was employed, right? You paid her, didn’t you?”
“In a way,” Sadie said sheepishly. “You see, she already had two other jobs in town, but Norma had heard from Fiona that Buy the Book was short of help on Sunday—”
“My day to spend with Spencer,” I explained.
“So, I had Norma fill out the standard application. When she was done I looked it over and hired her on the spot.” Sadie shook her head at the memory. “But then that woman surprised me. When I told her what she would be paid, Norma told me she didn’t like the salary.”
“What did she want for part-time work?” Seymour cracked. “A 401(k) and a pension?”
“No,” Sadie replied. “Norma wanted to be paid in books.”