The Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher by Jessica Fletcher Page A

of work,” Tim said, “this is the only day I can spare, so let’s try to finish up as much as we can.”
    I’d decided to leave the materials on the basement shelves for another time when, I hoped, Eve’s handyman would be able to supply me with enough light to illuminate the task. I spent the rest of the afternoon sorting books with Tim, Elsie, and Barnaby. We continued to work until we ran out of boxes and the piles of books on the floor became a hazard to movement. I debated asking to borrow one of their cell phones but decided that the call to Seth could wait until I had some privacy.
    It was late afternoon when Tim dropped me off at home, the rain still pelting down. I brought in the mail and left it on the kitchen table while I hung up my yellow slicker on the back porch where it could drip onto the same rubber tray on which I set down my Bean boots. I plugged in my cell phone next to my desk and checked the answering machine for messages.
    I don’t give out my cell phone number to many people. Seth had it, of course, as did Mort Metzger, but I preferred to carry a cellular phone more as an emergency apparatus than one with which to occupy my time. I didn’t need to be immediately available to everyone who took a notion to call me. It distresses me to see so many young people—and some older ones, as well—with their eyes riveted on their palms while life takes place around them. Even though I was happy to use my computer to exchange e-mail with people who live far away, I’d determined that the telephone in my house would be my chief device for non-face-to-face communication, and left my old answering machine plugged in to record messages while I was away, or when I was concentrating on work and didn’t wish to respond to calls immediately.
    Seth had left me a message, and I was certain that once my cell phone was charged, there would be voice mail awaiting me there as well. He was usually persistent in his efforts to contact me.
    â€œJessica, Seth here. If you’re going to march around with one of those newfangled fruit phones, at least have the courtesy to keep the thing charged up. I hate talking to machines. We need to chat. Call me when you get home. Please!”
    That last part was said in an aggravated tone, and I decided that I needed a nice warm cup of tea in my hands before returning the call. While I waited for the water in the kettle to boil, I flipped through the envelopes I’d retrieved from my mailbox. They looked to be mostly solicitations for credit cards, or letters from competing television or computer companies urging me to change my service. There were a few bills, which I set aside to pay later that evening.
    One envelope had a stamp that had been canceled in New York City, and I opened it first. Inside was the letter I’d sent to Arthur Bannister at his bookstore. On the top of the page he’d written in pencil, “Just ran out of stationery. Sorry. Happy to help. Just tell me where and when and where I can stay. Always on the lookout for first editions, so if you see some, please set them aside.”
    I shook my head and smiled. Much as I was eager for Arthur to lend his expertise to our book sale, there was no way I was going to check the copyright page of every book in Cliff’s collection to cull the first editions for my old friend. I debated the wisdom of telling him that before he made the trip, and I decided not to. I didn’t want to give him any excuses to turn me down. I knew that once Arthur was faced with a sea of books, he would be as happy as a clam in mud, diving into his favorite preoccupation, discovering hidden treasures.
    At the bottom of the page where I’d added my handwritten postscript to him, Arthur had scrawled, “It doesn’t snow in Cabot Cove in October, does it? If it does, I won’t be able to make it.”
    The kettle whistled at the same time that the phone rang. I picked up