Free The Ghost and the Femme Fatale by Alice Kimberly Page B

Jack. But Seymour beat me to the lanky hardware store own er.
    “Hey, Thor, where’s your mighty hammer?”
    It was Seymour’s favorite joke with Bud, who used a ball peen hammer to maintain control over the Quindicott Business Own ers Association meetings. Bud used to have a real judge’s gavel, until someone lifted it. Now he carried his “good- as- a gavel” to and from our meetings on his tool belt.
    “Hi, Bud!” I said brightly, hoping to make up for Seymour’s jibe.
    “Hello, Pen,” Bud said, touching the brim of his Napp Hardware baseball cap. Then he frowned at Seymour. “Cut the crap, Tarnish. I’m not in the mood.”
    Seymour’s eyes bulged. “My, we’re testy today. What’s eating you?”
    Bud was silent as he eyed the people around us. “Nothing I care to talk about.”
    Noting Bud’s surly mood, I quickly changed the subject by explaining my plight. Bud immediately offered to help me transport the coffee and pastries back to the bookshop in his hardware store van.
    Ten minutes later, he’d downed two doughnuts and a large coffee, then rolled the truck up to the front of the bakery and unlocked the rear double doors. The crowd parted as Seymour and I loaded up the goodies. The three of us wedged ourselves into the front seat of the van. With my elbow jammed into Bud’s overalls, we were off.
    During the short drive down Cranberry Street, Jack reminded me to get going with the grilling, and I cleared my throat.
    “So, Bud, what did you think about that accident last night at the theater?”
    Bud cursed and shook his head. “I won’t take the fall for that one. No way,” he declared.
    “Who’s blaming you?” I asked.
    “Who isn’t? Your pal the Brainiac for starters.” Bud’s calloused fingers squeezed the steering wheel. “That’s the thanks I get for stepping in at the last second when that fancy restoration firm in Newport couldn’t be bothered with final fixes.”
    A bicyclist swerved into Bud’s path. He hit the van’s brakes and horn. The van lurched, throwing me and Seymour forward and back.
    “Woah, Speed Racer, chill!” Seymour cried.
    “I’ve got a good crew. The best!” Bud continued, ignoring Seymour. “Not a bunch of bums hired off the street. My guys know what they’re doing!”
    “Including Dixon Gallagher?” I asked.
    Bud frowned. “I know Dixon looks too young to be skilled, but believe me, he is. He’s been working for me part- time for more than ten years. I taught him some, but he already knew plenty because his dad’s a master electrician. When that boy finally gets over his rock- star fantasies and quits his garage band, you can bet he’ll quit me, too, and start earning serious money in the union.”
    “So Dixon hung the speaker?”
    “No, Pen. I hung that speaker myse lf , and I know the job was done right.”
    I watched that cyclist in front of us pedal casually off to the side of the street, as if he hadn’t almost been run over. Festival attendees took advantage of Bud’s situation and jaywalked in front of his van. Bud cursed and honked again.
    “What did Chief Ciders say?” I asked.
    “That moron with a badge? He claims crossed electrical wires sparked a fire, which damaged the support rack and caused the speaker to drop onto the stage.” Bud slammed the steering wheel. “That dog don’t hunt, I tell you! I’ve been saying we need a real fire marshal in this town, not a bunch of know- nothing volunteers who see two wires within fifty feet of one another and immediately cry ‘electrical fire.’ ”
    The street cleared and Bud pushed the pedal to the metal. I was forced back into my seat again as we raced the final few blocks. Then the van screeched to a halt in front of Buy the Book. Seymour immediately popped the door and hopped out.
    I stayed. “Tell me more.”
    “There was no fire and no fire damage, Pen,” Bud asserted. “The ceiling wasn’t even scorched, and the fire alarm and sprinkler system never