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her?”
    She’s one accident- prone dame.
    “What do you mean by that?” I demanded.
    But the ghost didn’t answer.
    “Jack? Are you there?”
    He wasn’t. For what ever his reason this time, the ghost of Jack Shepard had once again faded to black.
    CHAPTER 3

Night Trips
    The work of the police, like that of a woman, is never
    done.
    —He Walked by Night, 1948
    I DIDN’T GO to the party on the Finch Inn lawn. Even though it was a Friday night, Spencer’s sixteen- year- old babysitter had a midnight curfew. Normally, my aunt Sadie would have stayed home with Spence, but being in her seventies hadn’t precluded accepting a hot date for the party with widower Bud Napp. I, on the other hand, was young, dateless, and had to get home.
    After letting Spencer’s sitter out the bookstore’s front door, I relocked the shop, climbed the stairs to our three- bedroom apartment, and checked on my sleeping son.
    Spencer was in dreamland on his narrow bed, his breathing deep and even; his orange- striped cat, Bookmark, curled up at his feet. He was eleven now, and, not for the first time, I noticed his growing resemblance to my late older brother: the thick, auburn hair with the stubborn cowlick, the long- lashed eyes, and light dusting of freckles. I had those features, too, but unlike my brother, who’d been a real lady’s man, I’d never been anything close to a magnet for the opposite sex.
    Thank goodness Spencer’s too young for all that , I thought. But I knew it wouldn’t be much longer before he started calling girls, or they started calling him. That was the sort of “problem” I’d be happy to deal with compared to what we’d already gone through.
    A few years ago, after his father’s suicide, Spencer had become increasingly withdrawn—not unlike Calvin’s own behavior before he’d stepped out the bedroom window of our high- rise apartment.
    After Calvin’s funeral, my son seemed convinced that I was going to leave him next, so he didn’t want to leave me—didn’t want to go to school or summer camp, was reluctant even to step out of the apartment. Then nightmares plagued him; his fears increased, his grades fell, and the therapist my wealthy in-laws had hired for him was unable to help.
    That’s when the McClures began to pressure me. Spencer needed to “get away,” they said. Their solution was boarding school. Mine was a whole lot different. I moved us up to my little hometown of Quindicott, Rhode Island.
    It had been difficult at first. Calvin’s mother and sister had hit the roof—fashionable, upscale Newport was the place to live in Rhode Island, not my dinky little hometown. They hadn’t understood my decision, and Spencer had been angry that I’d forced him to leave New York, abandon everything familiar.
    Instead of his exclusive private academy, Spencer was now attending public school. His new bedroom was half the size of his old one, the posh view of skyscrapers exchanged for a single old tree. His sleekly modern private bath was now a shared restroom with a claw- footed tub and a chipped sink.
    Eventually, however, he came around; and now he was a completely different child. It was hard for me to admit, but even before Calvin’s death, Spencer had been moody and taciturn; sometimes so shy he had trouble making friends. Maybe he’d been reflecting Calvin’s own depression and aloofness. Or maybe being in the shadow of a spoiled, lousy, self- absorbed father was just as bad as dealing with the loss of one. (Not that I want to speak ill of the dead.) But my boy was so much happier these days; so much more alive , with blossoming interests and solid grades in school. He even enjoyed helping out at the store; and those terrible nightmares? Gone .
    I smiled with that thought as I half- closed my son’s door and moved to my own bedroom. Stifling a yawn, I kicked off my low- heeled shoes, changed out of my slacks and blazer, and slipped into my nightshirt. Then I settled under the