The Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher by Jessica Fletcher Read Free Book Online

right after the article appeared, a handyman called me and said he wasn’t afraid to work in the house. I hired him on the spot. He starts in a few days.”
    Nevertheless, the prospect of spending time in a haunted house was not as appealing to at least one member of the Friends of the Library. She actually offered to assist with the book sale only if she didn’t have to cross the threshold. Others pleaded how busy they were. The end result was that we were short-staffed, and the responsibility rested on my shoulders. It occurred to me that if the weather didn’t cooperate on the day of the book sale, we’d need a large tent to protect the books and the buyers, and that meant arranging for a rental from a local company. The sale was becoming a much bigger undertaking than I’d envisioned when I’d volunteered to take it on. Thank goodness I had at least two people helping me today.
    I knew where the animal books were because earlier in the day I had discovered
Reptiles and Amphibians of the Amazon
by Richard D. Bartlett in the same box as
Cat and Mouse
by James Patterson. I removed the latter and added it to a carton marked “Thrillers.” Cliff’s literary interests were wide-ranging, and his collection would have been excellent competition for a bookstore, or even the Cabot Cove Library, had he shelved them in any order. But he hadn’t. An Agatha Christie novel was just as likely to be found among the dictionaries as next to another mystery. I got the impression that once having finished a book, Cliff put it on any shelf where space was available.
    â€œShould we keep the old encyclopedias, Jessica?” Lettie asked. “There’s a full set of World Books.”
    â€œDoris Ann at the library said no one wants those anymore.”
    â€œI’ll put it in the kitchen so it doesn’t go into the sale by mistake,” Lettie said. “Do you have another marker I can use to write on the box?”
    â€œThere’s a package of them in my shoulder bag,” I said. “I left it by the front door.”
    â€œIt’s not there now,” Lettie said, carrying a box of books out of the library. She was tall and lean with steel gray hair cut short. Seth had described her as spry. I guessed that she must have been well over eighty, but she walked like a woman decades younger. “Comes from doing for yourself,” she’d told me when I’d complimented her. “Who’s going to chop wood for the fireplace if not me? My sister, Lucy, would be useless. I have to do more and more for her.”
    â€œI thought I saw your bag in the dining room, Mrs. Fletcher,” Beth said. “I’ll go get it for you.”
    â€œThank you,” I said, shaking my head and thinking,
I must be getting forgetful. I don’t recall leaving my bag in the dining room.
    â€œIt was right next to the box of books on health and medicine,” Lettie’s great-niece said when she returned, holding aloft my tan leather satchel.
    â€œYou’re a dear. I have half my life in that bag, not to mention my house keys.” I took it from her and groped around inside for a new package of markers. “I’ll bring one to Lettie. Do you need another marker, too?”
    â€œNo. Mine still has some ink left.”
    I dropped my shoulder bag next to the front door and walked down the hall to the kitchen.
    The three of us had begun working that morning. Beth, a graphic designer for an architect, had made signs for the sale, which she brought to show us. In the library, I’d found a cabinet with some room—miracle of miracles—and stowed away Cliff’s hollowed-out poetry book to save for his grandson. I’d previously put the money in an envelope and delivered it to the attorney, Fred Kramer.
    By midafternoon we were knee-deep in boxes, and apart from four cartons of “General Fiction,” the only subgenre with more than three books