I intend to live forever, or die trying.
—Groucho Marx
“MAN, OH, MAN,” Seymour said, his big foot heavy on the gas pedal. “I cannot wait to see this guy’s collection!”
With excitement animating his round face, Seymour Tarnish hurled his rattletrap of a Volkswagen bus headlong into another billowing fog bank. In the back seat, I grabbed for the shoulder harness I should have put on an hour earlier and advised Seymour to—
“Slow down! We’ll get to Blackstone Falls soon enough, and I’d rather arrive in one piece.”
Outside the van windows, beyond the borders of the state highway, gorgeous scenery whizzed by—majestic trees in all their autumn glory, harvest gold fields with bright red barns, and quaint little towns crowned with white church steeples.
We couldn’t see any of it. Between our late start, spotty showers, and the rolling Atlantic fog, we might as well have been speeding through the Lincoln Tunnel.
“I wonder if we’ll see any Mike Shayne art from the 1960s,” Seymour mused aloud. “Those mysteries had the greatest paperback covers ever!”
From the passenger seat came an exasperated groan. Professor J. Brainert Parker was oblivious to the capricious coastal weather and Seymour’s distracted driving. The slender academic was far more concerned with making his point than trifles like traffic accidents.
“Five minutes ago you said the Edgar Rice Burroughs paperbacks had the ‘greatest covers ever.’ Perhaps you should make up your mind, Mailman.”
The term mailman isn’t usually applied as an insult, and delivering the mail is exactly what Seymour did for a living. But Brainert uttered the simple noun with the same withering condescension he used on students who dared to allow their phones to vibrate during his literary lectures.
On Seymour, however, the professor’s disapproving tone had zero effect. And I knew why. As one of the most voracious readers I’d ever met (and a brimming font of superficially useless facts), Seymour had channeled his hobbies and intellect into becoming a Jeopardy! champion. The game-show win not only made him a local star in our little town; it gave him the means to fulfill his lifelong dream of buying (of all things) an ice cream truck. Now Seymour was not only everyone’s favorite mailman; he was also the town’s only ice cream man, making him a beloved figure to every kid, mom, and Dove bar lover in the wider Quindicott area.
All this notoriety gave my socially awkward friend one more thing, an impenetrable shell of confidence that no one stood a chance of piercing, let alone his longtime frenemy.
“This Waverly guy we’re going to see has all sorts of original stuff from the old magazines, too. Right, Pen?”
“Yes, he does, Seymour. You’ll see it when we get there.”
If we get there, I silently added. With our driver at the wheel, I had my doubts. On the other hand, Seymour did possess one of the most extensive collections of pulp magazines I’d ever seen, and nothing (not rain nor snow nor professorial put-downs) would diminish this postal worker’s determination to view a private collection of vintage pulp paintings.
“Man! I hope he has a few Spicy Mystery covers. Those artists were masters.”
“At what?” Brainert sniffed. “Paint by numbers?”
“At portraying the feminine form in all its glory!”
“Sans clothing, and in outrageous and exploitative situations, no doubt.”
“There was no nudity on pulp covers,” Seymour pointed out. “It was all suggestive. The women of the Spicy magazines were scantily yet tastefully clad. And who cares if the women were nude, anyway? The greatest artists in the world painted nudes. I never heard you beef about Botticelli and his Venus on the Half Shell, or Michelangelo or Carpaccio.”
Once again, the professor groaned. “You do mean Caravaggio, don’t you? Because carpaccio is an appetizer at Olive Garden.”
“Yeah, I know.” Seymour snickered. “I was just trying to get a rise out of you.”
“And you’ve been succeeding nonstop for the last hour,” I muttered.
“You must understand, I am not talking about nudity, per se,” the professor now argued. “I am referring to the lurid nature of the illustrations: a mad scientist menacing a poor girl with a giant hypodermic needle, a hunchback monster slavering over one of your ‘tastefully clad’ victims.”
Seymour released the steering wheel to throw up his hands. “Now you’re talking about the fiction!”
“So?”
“So a pulp artist’s job is to illustrate the story,” Seymour went on as the bus began to drift into the oncoming lane.
“Seymour, watch the road!” I cried.
Our driver remained oblivious. “You can’t condemn the artist for that. Besides, not all the pulps had shocking covers. Black Mask had really classy art. Did you say something, Pen?”
Both men turned away from the road to stare at me. I saw them only in silhouette, illuminated by the headlights of an onrushing truck. Between my shouting and pointing and the truck’s blasting horn, Seymour righted the bus, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision, and I faced the possibility that my life could end over a pulp-art show!
Don’t worry, doll, I got your back. Hell, I’ll even steer this jalopy out of harm’s way, if need be. The only one who’s a goner in this piece of junk went a long time ago—and that would be me.
Jack Shepard had been quiet most of the day, and I’d been too busy at the shop to notice. Now he was awake. And annoyed.
Sure, I caught lead poisoning in my prime, but there are worse fates—like listening to this pair of numbskulls bump gums for what feels like eternity!
The complaint was accompanied by a sharp decrease in the van’s temperature. Listen, Jack, I know you’re upset about the chatter, but could you turn down the frost? This old Volkswagen is already draftier than a medieval castle.
As suddenly as it came, the frigid blast dissipated.
So, Penny? What takes us out of Cornpone-cott? And in the company of these two clucking loons?
It’s just work. This is a business trip.
Yeah, with all that birdbrain chatter, how could it possibly be a pleasure trip?
Had I known Brainert and Seymour would get so worked up over cover art, I would have spared you the agony and left your old Buffalo nickel at home.
That coin, which had once served as Jack’s lucky charm in life, was now (for lack of a better term) my mobile connection to the dead detective. The physical talisman allowed me to take the ghost beyond the prison of our shop’s fieldstone walls.
Don’t let it ruffle your skirt. It’s a kick to get out of that hick town once in a while, even if it’s only to go to another hick town. But why with this pair of rutabagas?
Seymour volunteered to haul the paintings we need for our art show so I wouldn’t have to rent a van. And Brainert came out of academic curiosity—and at my request since he’s helping me arrange a second book signing on his university’s campus.
It’s a crying shame your work never takes you to more interesting places. Why can’t your business trips ever involve a hoppin’ gin joint or saucy burlesque review? I’d even prefer the track—as long as you placed a few bets on the bobtails for me.
That is a tragedy. Sorry, Jack.
Aw, forget it. You never have to apologize to me, though you might have some explaining to do to your slack-jawed pals.
I suddenly realized the nonstop bickering in the van had halted. Brainert was now openly staring at me over the back of his seat, and Seymour was eyeing me through the rearview mirror.
“What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
Seymour’s expression was full of concern. “Are you okay, Pen? You completely zoned out, for like a full minute.”
“It was quite disconcerting.” Brainert nodded. “We spoke to you, but you didn’t appear to hear us.”
Having a ghost inside one’s head can do that to a person.
Okay, that’s the answer I wanted to give. But I wasn’t up for a lecture on the benefits of modern psychiatry. Fortunately, I was spared the effort of making up a lame excuse by a sign suddenly revealed in our van’s headlights.
“Eyes front, Seymour,” I commanded. “The turn for Blackstone Falls is dead ahead!”
Are you trying to insult me, doll?
I said “dead ahead,” Jack, not “deadhead.”
I know. The ghost snickered. I was just trying to get a rise out of you.