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Authors: Alice Kimberly
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Once the autopsy came through—and it was officially established that Timothy Brennan’s death was from natural causes—then all of this was sure to go away. But a voice inside told me that my troubles were only beginning. And another voice—not mine at all—said something I didn’t want to hear:
Baby, sounds to me like you’re a picture being fitted for a frame, and the name of that frame is murder.
I leaned against the counter, trying to catch my breath. I told myself to ignore the “ghost” voice and be reasonable, logical, practical.
“Brennan wasn’t murdered,” I silently told myself—and that annoying deep voice. “He died of some sort of stroke or heart attack. An autopsy will certainly prove it, and then all this . . . mess will go away.”
Officer Franzetti was still speaking, but I just nodded at his words, not really hearing them.
Outside, I noticed the crowd swelling. Even on top of the other shocks of this morning, that surprised me. I thought the arrival of the State Police would have scared them off. Instead it seemed to attract even more curious people.
I searched the crowd for the face of Josh, the young man from Salient House. But he was gone—the only one the army of State Policemen seemed to scare, I noted.
“Eddie, excuse me,” I suddenly said. “I need to go upstairs, see to my son, and clean up.”
“Oh, sure, Pen. Take your time.” His chin gestured toward the Staties at work. “I know they will.”
Great. Just great, I thought. A record crowd at opening, and we’re closed for an episode of CSI.
CHAPTER 8
Curious Jack
There are things happening. . . . They go on right under your very nose and you never know about them.
—Mike Hammer, My Gun Is Quick by Mickey Spillane, 1950
AFTER ALL THESE decades, the ghost of Jack Shepard knew the layout at 122 Cranberry like the back of his hand—that is, like he used to know the back of his hand.
Six rooms occupied the second floor: a sunny eat-in kitchen with faded gold wallpaper and yellow curtains, a cozy living room with a smoke-stained fireplace and tall front windows, two large bedrooms, one child-size bedroom, and one bath. The old rooms were always kept tidy, but they showed the wear and age of an owner who had neither the wealth nor the youth to upgrade them.
The ghost of Jack Shepard tailed Penelope Thornton-McClure up the stairs and into those well-worn rooms. First stop: her son’s bedroom, a ten-by-ten space in need of repainting. The kid was still asleep on a small twin bed. Like the chest of drawers and nightstand, the white wood headboard displayed scratches and knicks, but the Curious George covers appeared clean and new. When Penelope kissed her son’s copper bangs, he stirred.
“Mom?”
“Morning, honey. How did you sleep?”
The boy sat up. Yawned. Frowned. “Bad dream,” he said.
“Again?” asked Penelope, sitting on the narrow bed. “Same kind?”
The kid nodded his head in the affirmative. Penelope hugged her son close and rocked him for a long minute.
Jack had been in Penelope’s head for a while now, so he knew all about the kid—and her unending worry.
Apparently the kid had gone through grief counseling at school just after his father killed himself. At first, Penelope’s instinct was to keep him close to her, but her in-laws pushed hard for her to “get him back to a normal routine.” So, just as school ended, Spencer was sent away on his usual two weeks of foreign-language camp. After only one night, the kid called home, terrorized by nightmares, begging his mother to come get him.
“There’s this rare genetic disease that I once read about in a novel, familial dysautonomia, ” she’d told her Aunt Sadie early one morning over coffee. “One in something like four hundred thousand children are born with it—they cannot feel physical pain. This condition is quite dangerous because pain, when you think about, is actually useful, a valuable warning against
Baby, sounds to me like you’re a picture being fitted for a frame, and the name of that frame is murder.
I leaned against the counter, trying to catch my breath. I told myself to ignore the “ghost” voice and be reasonable, logical, practical.
“Brennan wasn’t murdered,” I silently told myself—and that annoying deep voice. “He died of some sort of stroke or heart attack. An autopsy will certainly prove it, and then all this . . . mess will go away.”
Officer Franzetti was still speaking, but I just nodded at his words, not really hearing them.
Outside, I noticed the crowd swelling. Even on top of the other shocks of this morning, that surprised me. I thought the arrival of the State Police would have scared them off. Instead it seemed to attract even more curious people.
I searched the crowd for the face of Josh, the young man from Salient House. But he was gone—the only one the army of State Policemen seemed to scare, I noted.
“Eddie, excuse me,” I suddenly said. “I need to go upstairs, see to my son, and clean up.”
“Oh, sure, Pen. Take your time.” His chin gestured toward the Staties at work. “I know they will.”
Great. Just great, I thought. A record crowd at opening, and we’re closed for an episode of CSI.
CHAPTER 8
Curious Jack
There are things happening. . . . They go on right under your very nose and you never know about them.
—Mike Hammer, My Gun Is Quick by Mickey Spillane, 1950
AFTER ALL THESE decades, the ghost of Jack Shepard knew the layout at 122 Cranberry like the back of his hand—that is, like he used to know the back of his hand.
Six rooms occupied the second floor: a sunny eat-in kitchen with faded gold wallpaper and yellow curtains, a cozy living room with a smoke-stained fireplace and tall front windows, two large bedrooms, one child-size bedroom, and one bath. The old rooms were always kept tidy, but they showed the wear and age of an owner who had neither the wealth nor the youth to upgrade them.
The ghost of Jack Shepard tailed Penelope Thornton-McClure up the stairs and into those well-worn rooms. First stop: her son’s bedroom, a ten-by-ten space in need of repainting. The kid was still asleep on a small twin bed. Like the chest of drawers and nightstand, the white wood headboard displayed scratches and knicks, but the Curious George covers appeared clean and new. When Penelope kissed her son’s copper bangs, he stirred.
“Mom?”
“Morning, honey. How did you sleep?”
The boy sat up. Yawned. Frowned. “Bad dream,” he said.
“Again?” asked Penelope, sitting on the narrow bed. “Same kind?”
The kid nodded his head in the affirmative. Penelope hugged her son close and rocked him for a long minute.
Jack had been in Penelope’s head for a while now, so he knew all about the kid—and her unending worry.
Apparently the kid had gone through grief counseling at school just after his father killed himself. At first, Penelope’s instinct was to keep him close to her, but her in-laws pushed hard for her to “get him back to a normal routine.” So, just as school ended, Spencer was sent away on his usual two weeks of foreign-language camp. After only one night, the kid called home, terrorized by nightmares, begging his mother to come get him.
“There’s this rare genetic disease that I once read about in a novel, familial dysautonomia, ” she’d told her Aunt Sadie early one morning over coffee. “One in something like four hundred thousand children are born with it—they cannot feel physical pain. This condition is quite dangerous because pain, when you think about, is actually useful, a valuable warning against
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