{"product_id":"the-ghost-and-mrs-mcclure-isbn-9780425194614","title":"The Ghost and Mrs. McClure","description":"\u003cb\u003eTHE FIRST HAUNTED BOOKSHOP MYSTERY FROM \u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES\u003c\/i\u003e BESTSELLING AUTHOR CLEO COYLE—WRITING AS ALICE KIMBERLY\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Part cozy and part hard-boiled detective novel with traces of the supernatural, \u003ci\u003eThe Ghost and Mrs. McClure\u003c\/i\u003e is just a lot of fun.”—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Mystery Reader\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYoung widow Penelope Thornton-McClure and her old Aunt Sadie are making ends meet by managing a mystery book shop—a quaint Rhode Island landmark rumored to be haunted. Pen may not believe in ghosts, but she \u003ci\u003edoes\u003c\/i\u003e believe in good publicity—like nabbing Timothy Brennan for a book signing. But soon after the bestselling thriller writer reveals a secret about the store’s link to a 1940s murder, he keels over dead—and right in the middle of the store’s new Community Events space.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Who gives Mrs. McClure the first clue that it was murder? The bookstore’s full-time ghost—a PI murdered on the very spot more than fifty years ago. Is he a figment of Pen’s overactive imagination? Or is the oddly likable fedora-wearing specter the only hope Pen has to solve the crime? You can bet your everlasting life on it...\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Ghost and Mrs. McClure\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A deliciously charming mystery with a haunting twist!”—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Laura Childs\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Quindicott’s enigmatic townspeople come alive in this quirky mystery and readers will eagerly anticipate future installments—and the continuing easy banter and romantic tension between Jack and Penelope.”—\u003ci\u003eRT Book Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ms. Kimberly has penned a unique premise and cast of characters to hook us on her first of a series.”—Rendezvous\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A charming, funny and quirky mystery starring a suppressed widow and a stimulating ghost who is attracted to her even though they can only meet in her dreams. He is hard boiled in the tradition of Phillip Marlowe and she is a genteel Miss Marple; yet the two opposites make an explosive combination. Alice Kimberly definitely has a hit series if the first book is anything to go by.”—Midwest Book Review\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “What a delightful new mystery series!  I was hooked from the start....I adored the ghost of Jack....Pairing him with the disbelieving Penelope is a brilliant touch.”—Roundtable Reviews\u003cb\u003eCleo Coyle\u003c\/b\u003e is a pseudonym for Alice Alfonsi, writing in collaboration with her husband, Marc Cerasini. Both are \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling authors of the Coffeehouse Mysteries—now celebrating more than ten years in print. As \u003cb\u003eAlice Kimberly\u003c\/b\u003e, they also write the nationally bestselling Haunted Bookshop Mysteries. Alice has worked as a journalist in Washington, DC, and New York, and has written popular fiction for adults and children. A former magazine editor, Marc has authored espionage thrillers and nonfiction for adults and children. Alice and Marc are also bestselling media tie-in writers who have penned properties for Lucasfilm, NBC, Fox, Disney, Imagine, and MGM. They live and work in New York City, where they write independently and together.\u003cp\u003eTable of Contents\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTitle Page\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCopyright Page\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAcknowledgements\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEpigraph\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCHAPTER 1 - The Big Ending\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCHAPTER 2 - The Author Arrives\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCHAPTER 3 - A Postmortem Post\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCHAPTER 4 - A Drink before Dying\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCHAPTER 5 - Hard-Boiled Bogey Man\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCHAPTER 6 - The Morning After\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCHAPTER 7 - Crime Scene\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCHAPTER 8 - Curious Jack\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCHAPTER 9 - Dying for Profit\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCHAPTER 10 - Inquiring Minds\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCHAPTER 11 - Shadow Boxing\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCHAPTER 12 - Dark and Stormy Night\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCHAPTER 13 - Don’t Know Jack\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCHAPTER 14 - Strangers in the Night\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCHAPTER 15 - An Open Book\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCHAPTER 16 - Revelations\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCHAPTER 17 - A Worthy Suspect\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCHAPTER 18 - To Quibble or Not to Quibble\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCHAPTER 19 - Things That Get Bumped in the Night\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCHAPTER 20 - The Girl in the Frame-Up\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCHAPTER 21 - Booked\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEPILOGUE\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDon’t miss the second charming mystery in the Haunted Bookshop series.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Ghost . . .\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen Jack had been alive . . . the very blood in his veins pulsed to the beat of the city streets (when he’d \u003ci\u003ehad\u003c\/i\u003e  blood—and veins, that is).\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhy couldn’t he have spent eternity in a place like that?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eInstead he got eternity in cornpone alley.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNow the only excitement Jack ever had was scaring the crap out of small-town operators . . .\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eand Mrs. McClure\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHer name was Penelope Thornton-McClure. And he had to admit she showed more moxie than a lot of grown men he’d pranked in the past fifty years.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCertainly, she was the first living entity he’d even considered shifting himself toward since he’d crossed over, which was hilarious because, if he’d read her thoughts right, she didn’t even believe in ghosts.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWell, he hadn’t believed in them either . . .\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either \u003cbr\u003eare the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, \u003cbr\u003eand any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business \u003cbr\u003eestablishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTHE GHOST AND MRS. MCCLURE\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA Berkley Prime Crime Book \/ published by arrangement with \u003cbr\u003ethe author\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePRINTING HISTORY \u003cbr\u003eBerkley Prime Crime mass-market edition \/ February 2004\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCopyright © 2004 by The Berkley Publishing Group.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAll rights reserved. \u003cbr\u003eThis book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced \u003cbr\u003ein any form without permission. \u003cbr\u003eThe scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet \u003cbr\u003eor via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal \u003cbr\u003eand punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic \u003cbr\u003eeditions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of \u003cbr\u003ecopyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. \u003cbr\u003eFor information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, \u003cbr\u003ea division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., \u003cbr\u003e375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeISBN : 978-1-101-01044-0\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBerkley Prime Crime Books are published \u003cbr\u003eby The Berkley Publishing Group, \u003cbr\u003ea division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., \u003cbr\u003e375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. \u003cbr\u003eThe name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the \u003cbr\u003eBERKLEY PRIME CRIME design \u003cbr\u003eare trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003eACKNOWLEDGMENTS\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe author wishes to thank \u003cbr\u003eSenior Editor Kimberly Lionetti \u003cbr\u003eand literary agent John Talbot \u003cbr\u003efor their valued support in giving this distinct \u003cbr\u003ephysical incarnation to \u003cbr\u003ewhat began as the ghost of an idea.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003every special thanks to \u003cbr\u003eMajor John J. Leyden, Jr. \u003cbr\u003eField Operations Officer, Rhode Island State Police \u003cbr\u003efor his helpful answers to procedural questions.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAUTHOR’S NOTE\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlthough real places and institutions are mentioned in this book, they are used in the service of fiction. No character in this book is based on any person, living or dead, and the world presented is completely fictitious.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You mean there is a hell?” asked Lucy. “Some people might call it so,” said the captain. “There’s a dimension that some spirits have to wait in till they realize and admit the truth about themselves.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e—R. A. Dick, \u003ci\u003eThe Ghost and Mrs. Muir\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cp\u003ePROLOGUE\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy life is my own, and the opinions of others don’t interest me . . .\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e—Carroll John Daly, “Three Gun Terry,” \u003ci\u003eBlack Mask\u003c\/i\u003e, May 1923 (cited as the first published appearance of a hard-boiled detective)\u003cp\u003eQuindicott, Rhode Island 1949\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCranberry. What kind of a cornball name was that for a street?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJack Shepard hauled his powerful frame out of the black Packard and slammed the heavy door, sending a violent shudder through the mass of metal.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFive hours. He’d just spent five dusty hours behind the wheel of this boiler, hunched up like some luckless clipster trying to crack a bag man’s safe.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWith easy fingers, Jack buttoned-closed his double-breasted jacket. The suit was gunmetal gray, rising in a V from his narrow waist to his acre of shoulders. Closing his eyes, he imagined a pretty set of hands working over the kinks and knots. Tonight, thought Jack. After the drive back to Manhattan’s crowded dirty noise, he’d find a willing pair in some suds club, like he always did.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCasing the scene, Jack scanned the two- and three-story buildings that lined this lane—a kiddie version of the towering steel and glass where he usually ranged. “Town,” he muttered. That’s what two farmers had called it about ten miles back, out by the cow pasture and old mill, where he’d asked for directions. The “Welcome to Quindicott” sign came next. Farmland after, more of the monotonous rolling green he’d driven through on the way up. Then came the gradual density of houses. Trees and lawns and hedges trimmed by do-right guys. Barking dogs and chubby-cheeked kids. You had your “quaint” town square, your manicured lawn, and your white bandshell with red trim. The whole thing looked so doggone cheery, Jack expected to see a Norman Rockwell signature in the sidewalk.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe “townsfolk” in this homespun little picture looked cheery enough, too, soaking up the last hours of the orange sun’s late-summer juice. Young men in flannel. Old men with clay pipes. Farmers’ wives in gingham, and shop girls with bare legs.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThese people were off the cob, all right, Jack thought,  starting a casual stroll. Corny as they came. Some rocked on porches, some gabbed on benches, some ambled along the cobblestone lane—and all eyes were on him—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Who are ya, fella?”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCurious eyes—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Waddaya want?”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSmall-town eyes—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Ya don’t belong.”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJack lit a butt from his deck of Luckies, then used a single finger to push back his fedora. \u003ci\u003eYou people want a look at my mug? Go on then, look.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJack’s face wasn’t pretty, but no dame ever complained. His forehead was broad with thick sandy brows; his cheeks were sunken, and his nose like a boxer’s—slightly crooked with a broken-a-few-times bump. His jaw was iron, his chin flat and square—with a one-inch scar in the shape of a dagger slashing across it—and his eyes were sharper than a skiv. Freddie once told him they were the color of granite and just about as hard.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMaybe he was hard, thought Jack. But baby, this was one hick town. No painted dolls or groghounds here. No nickel rats, cheap grifters, or diamond-dripping dames looking to have their husbands set up. Just clean air, families with kids, potluck socials, and farm-fresh moo juice.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA town for settling down. That’s what this place was, thought Jack. A few of those bare-legged, unpainted country dolls passed him, gave him the shy version of the “what’s-\u003ci\u003eyour\u003c\/i\u003e-name-big-fella?” once-over. \u003ci\u003eNice,\u003c\/i\u003e thought Jack, eyeballing them right back. Shapely gams. Milky skin. Curves the way he liked them—bountiful. Jack took a long, slow drag from his Lucky and turned away. A man  like him had to be careful in a place like this. Say the right thing to the wrong broad and he’d make her about a thousand times more miserable than he was.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWith a slight limp, Jack continued his slow stroll—casual, easy, hands in pockets, the ache in his shin an unwanted souvenir from that underpaid job he’d done for Uncle Sam over in Germany. Jack ignored it. Continued to case the scene.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAhead of him, a row of shops beckoned. Bakery, grocery, dress joint, beauty parlor. There it was: one twenty-two. A little more class than the other places. Probably did business with that fancy Newport set not far away. Wide plate-glass window. Words etched in: We Buy and Sell Books.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYeah. But did they have the book he was looking for? The one \u003ci\u003ethey\u003c\/i\u003e were looking for? The one they killed Freddie for?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe sun was sinking like a popped balloon now. The day was done, the lights nearly out, and just around the corner, a shadow stained the sidewalk, a city-suited figure, waiting.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJack cursed low. Thought he’d shaken that tail.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe turned the brass handle, pushed. The shop’s bell tinkled like a bad girl’s giggle. A chill up his spine like a foot on his grave.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe shadow moved closer.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJack’s hand rose, dipped into his suitcoat, caressed his rod’s handle, smooth from wear. He got a bad feeling, but Jack had gotten them before. And when he started a thing, he never turned back.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBesides, this job was for Freddie, and Jack promised his dead friend he’d ride this train out. All the way to the end of the line.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eI stake my everlasting life on it.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen the shadow receded, Jack refocused his attention on the job at hand. Investigation and interrogation were things he’d polished as a private eye, but he’d learned as a cop—back before he’d joined up. In the service, he’d learned a lot more: About men and the things they’d do and say under pressure. About the enemy: how and why they’d lie, and, more importantly, what methods would pry the truth out of them.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe moment of truth came today.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFor Jack it came sharp and hard and quick, landing at the back of his skull. But the blow didn’t kill him. The gunshots did. To the head, to the face, to the heart. Enough to make sure Jack Shepard’s everlasting promise to his friend began today . . . along with his everlasting life.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e CHAPTER 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Big Ending\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMurder doesn’t round out anybody’s life, except the murdered and sometimes the murderer’s.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e—Nick Charles to Nora Charles in \u003ci\u003eThe Thin Man\u003c\/i\u003e  by Dashiell Hammett, 1933\u003cp\u003eQuindicott, Rhode Island Today\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“We killed him!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI was beside myself. In a frantic state of hand-wringing and head-shaking, I paced the length of the bookshop’s aisle from Christie to Grafton and back again.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Calm down, dear,” said my aunt, her slight frame tipping the Shaker rocker back and forth with about as much anxiety as a retiree on a Palm Beach sundeck.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“\u003ci\u003eHow\u003c\/i\u003e can I calm down?” I asked. “We killed a best-selling author on the first night of his book tour!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Well, the milk’s gone and spilled now. No use crying over it. If you need help calming down, why don’t you have a belt?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI was not surprised by this rather unladylike suggestion from my aunt. Sadie may have been seventy-two, and barely four feet eleven, but for an aging bantamweight she had a big mouth and a good right hook. The Quindicott Business Owners’ Association never forgot the day she’d spotted a shoplifter at ten yards (putting a Hammett first edition down his pants). She’d taken him out with one sharp Patricia Cornwell to the head.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302992892133,"sku":"NP9780425194614","price":7.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780425194614_c4b32587-4a81-444a-918f-b9a404e9ea00.jpg?v=1767739494","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-ghost-and-mrs-mcclure-isbn-9780425194614","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}