Spectral Speculation

By Renae Janecek

Children's librarian Elinore Dullard's life twists unexpectedly when she picks up the dog-eared book by the late Adrean Denzin. Handling the dusty tome rouses the grouchy writer's ghost—who demands she investigate his death.

However, the expired author's real-life demise turns out to be more convoluted than the suspense thrillers he used to pen. Putting her life on hold, Elinore checks out clues to prove Adrean's death wasn't accidental. Life becomes stranger than fiction as she's coerced into the position of a ghost's assistant. They're on the hunt to discover who took Adrean out of Circulation.

The unlikely duo need to get on the same page in order to solve the case before the killer strikes again. Murder is on the books, and this time it could be Elinore checking out for good...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Renae Janecek
• Release date: Feb 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224007042

Book preview

Chapter One

Elinore Dullard’s life was dull as dishwater. Actually, that wasn’t accurate. Dishwater was way more exciting; at least there featured the risk of stabbing a finger on a kitchen knife lurking in the murky depths. But it would be another prickly object that would disrupt her life—the ghost of Adrean Denzin.

It was a typical Saturday night in Elinore’s lackluster life as a youth librarian in a small Illinois suburb. Roughly five thousand citizens occupied the little town of Shadow Heights, located a little over an hour west of the bustling Chicago city limits.

Today’s Saturday shift sported its usual boring activities. Several pre-teen boys played games on the computer, and a young mother read to her toddler. The toddler was more interested in trying to figure out how to consume two dead ladybugs than the book’s glossy pages. Smart-mouthed kids with sticky fingers ran unsupervised up and down the aisles. A trail of discarded books lay in their wake. Elinore hated how parents assumed youth librarian was synonymous with babysitter.

She perched behind the circulation desk, drumming her fingers against the polished wood. This would be the brats’ second warning to quiet down, and she didn’t relish the verbal altercation that would ensue. Some of these snot-nosed kids knew more colorful swear words than her crass father.

When several novels sailed through the air like Frisbees, Elinore braced herself for beast mode. That was, until a perky blonde blocked her view.

Elinore, I was hoping you could do me a favor. The fiction librarian, Becca St. James, stood there, twisting a golden strand of hair around a blue manicured finger. Becca, an unrealistically gorgeous and thin woman, was under the impression Elinore was her new bestie.

I’m kind of in the middle of something, Elinore said, pointing at the disheveled mess of books on the library’s stiff, gray carpet.

Becca glanced at the children throwing books and shrugged her slender shoulders. I’ll take care of them if you go sort out donations and catalog the usable items. You know how much I hate that creepy back room.

Elinore shuddered. She disliked the storage room also. The director stored unwanted heaps of donated books the library received from local patrons—mostly from the deceased. The lights were finicky at best, when they did work, and they barely illuminated the coffin-like space. The room always stayed cobweb-free, because even spiders avoided the vicinity.

What do you say, Elinore? Becca asked again, puckering her full lips in a supplicating kissy face.

Elinore was about to decline when a book sailed passed, inches from her nose. Deal, she said automatically. Anything to avoid the little devils.

Becca smiled and turned her dazzling charms onto a boy getting ready to hurl another paperback weapon. He stared at her in wide-eyed admiration, and in a hypnotic trance, placed the book on the carpet. Becca walked over to the gang, and in an entrancing voice ordered the ghouls to pick up their mess. They complied, gawking at her like she was Aphrodite in the flesh.

I don’t know how she does it. Elinore grabbed a cheese stick from her insulated lunch bag and headed for the stairs.

Shadow Heights Library was relatively small with only two floors. The second floor housed the children and young adult books, while the first floor contained adult fiction, nonfiction, and multiple conference rooms. Tucked forgotten in the back next to an out-of-order restroom lurked the creepy storage room.

On the main floor, Elinore spotted Lenora lounging at the circulation desk, her Croc-covered feet propped on another chair she used as a footstool. Lenora Laze (pronounced lazy, which Elinore found quite fitting) slurped from her coffee thermos, ignoring an irritated man waiting to check out. The semi-retired librarian went out of her way to do as little as possible. Unfortunately for the rest of the staff, the work fell onto their slumped shoulders. Part of Lenora’s job was to sort through the discarded donations, but she’d successfully managed to avoid that particular task for years.

Elinore, are you going to the storage room? Lenora’s voice rasped like a chain-smoker’s. I asked that snooty new librarian to do it, but I see she pushed her job onto you. I would do it, but my sciatica is acting up again.

Elinore smiled and shoved the rest of the cheese into her mouth. She doubted Lenora even knew how to spell sciatica let alone know about the actual symptoms of the nerve pain. Swallowing the rest of her food, she said, By the way, you have someone waiting.

Lenora continued to sip her coffee in blissful ignorance, so Elinore helped the disgruntled man check out his books before continuing on her way. She thought about flagging down the page, Jack, but the poor guy was already dealing with a clogged toilet in the women’s restroom.

The main floor was tiled instead of carpeted. The library director, Bud, thought the children’s floor should be softer for the little tots, but the carpet felt more like concrete. Elinore’s sensible black shoes squeaked as she made her way into the bowels of the library. Florescent lights flickered above her head, and eerie shadows danced along the white walls.

She turned the corner, scuffing her right shoe on the slippery, barely-walked-upon floor. The door to the storage room gaped ajar, its interior dark and seemingly uninhabited.

Hello, Elinore said, pushing the door open. Oh for the love of cake, why am I spouting pleasantries? No one’s here.

The door banged against a heavy object, blocking Elinore from budging it open. Oh, I’m so sorry! she cried, envisioning a body sprawled on the floor, concussed by her attempts to enter.

Squeezing her size ten frame through the narrow gap, Elinore felt for the light switch. She squinted as the bright LED lights illuminated the room. For what it was worth. Several cardboard boxes stood in her way, one toppled on its side with books strewn about. The room was bodiless, well, besides Elinore’s.

They couldn’t manage putting the books on the table? she mumbled to herself, dragging one of the heavy boxes to the card table set up in the back of the small room. Dinged book carts lined the yellowish walls, some filled with previously donated items. Normally Jack, the library’s teenage page, carried the boxes for Lenora and stacked them on the table, but apparently he’d been in a hurry tonight.

Elinore undid the folded flaps and started sorting through the dusty contents. She sneezed multiple times and felt her irritated sinuses swell. Twenty minutes later, she’d stacked several piles of Agatha Christie novels and a few Perry Mason mysteries, all in pristine condition. Elinore marveled at how people could discard such classic collectibles, but most didn’t have her love of old books. Her mother loved books, and her collection contained some novels published in the mid-1800s. Now they adorned Elinore’s bookshelves, since her father couldn’t stand to look at them anymore.

The last box was the lightest and least dusty of them all. It only contained a few books. Reaching in, she extracted a scuffed paperback with dog-eared pages. The Dangerous Secret: A Ghostly Writer Mystery by Adrean Denzin.

Elinore had never heard of this author, and she opened the ill-used book to check its spine. There’d been too many donated books riddled with dead bed bugs. Luckily Jack was a wiz at spotting the nasty little critters, since Elinore had a hypersensitive gag reflex. Everyone had that one special talent…

The Denzin book contained zero bugs. She flipped to the dedication page to read its inscription.

To a friend, she read flatly. Not very creative, Mr. Denzin.

Perusing the pages further, Elinore noted Blamore Press, a company based in Chicago, had published the book. On the inside of the cover written in choppy red ink were the initials A.D. As she traced the handwriting with her fingertip, a surge of warmth trailed up her finger almost scalding her flesh.

Elinore inspected the finger, half-expecting a blister to mar her flesh. The skin looked the same, soft and pink. Surely she’d imagined the burning sensation. Half of the florescent lights sizzled to black while the others popped and flickered, threatening to stop working.

Great, Elinore groaned. She hadn’t been afraid of the dark since Elementary School, but somehow the old irrational fear kindled to life now.

What are you doing with my book? A clipped, baritone voice behind her sent her heart racing.

Turning her head, Elinore made out the tall figure of a man pacing soundlessly in front of the door. He happened to be standing under the non-working lights. The gloom made any attempts of gauging his appearance next to impossible. Squinting hard enough to make her eyes water, Elinore deduced some of the stranger’s features.

His dark hair fell in disheveled waves around a thin face. He would’ve been considered a handsome man if his black eyes weren’t so narrow and his nose so long and sharp. The man’s maroon zip-up sweater was rumpled like he’d slept in it for days. She sniffed the air trying to detect any cologne or soiled musk emanating from the stranger—she only smelled the aroma of dust.

Sir, library patrons aren’t allowed back here, she said in her best, slightly shaky, schoolmarm voice.

That’s my property you stole, and I’m not leaving without it. His long fingers curled into fists.

Please, sir, these are donated books. Elinore felt what bravado she’d mustered leach out with each piercing glare the man gave her.

Donated? Who the hell donated my books? I didn’t authorize this. His gaunt cheeks paled—or maybe they were already pale? She couldn’t be sure.

I’m going to ask you to calm down, sir. Elinore clutched the book to her ample chest like a shield. I don’t want to call Security on you. The man didn’t need to know the library didn’t have security personnel.

He laughed and looked Elinore up and down with a critical gaze. She wished she’d done something different with her ruler-straight hair and bangs. And did she have to wear the stupid mustard color cardigan today of all days? Elinore felt more dull and plain under the man’s scrutiny than she’d ever experienced in her twenty-eight years of existence.

Do you think a drab, little librarian like you intimidates me?

His words struck fear in her heart. Blinking to hold back tears, she staggered toward the ancient landline phone and grasped the receiver in one sweaty hand.

Last chance, she said, holding the phone to her ear. No dial tone. Of course the stupid thing didn’t work. Elinore readied the book like a make-shift weapon just in case the man decided to charge. Maybe if she aimed right the jerk would get a nasty paper cut.

Okay, okay, he said, raising his arms in supplication. The man stepped forward; his shoes didn’t even squeak on the tiles. Just give me my books, and I’ll be on my way. He eyed the book like a priceless ruby instead of a heap of creased pages.

One more step and I’ll throw, Elinore threatened, brandishing the book like a sword. Geez, weapons and swords? She needed to read less swashbuckling romances. Adrenaline slammed through her veins, making her forget her lack of judgment in reading material.

You can’t be serious. The man groaned, like he was the one dealing with an irrational patron instead of the reverse. It’s my stolen property.

Elinore couldn’t believe he still stuck to this book-theft notion. I’m calling the front desk now, she warned.

Bluffing, she reached for the dial pad. Trying to juggle the bulky phone receiver, Elinore lost her grip of the book. She let out a gasp and desperately tried to grab it. The book hit the floor with an audible thud, and the overhead lights sputtered, plunging the room into complete darkness.

Sinking to her knees, Elinore felt around for the book. She didn’t want the unhinged psychopath to have an unfair advantage in the dark. Her fingers felt for the book’s smooth cover, and once they’d found it, she snatched it up fast.

Instantly the lights sparked to life. Crouching low on the floor, Elinore let her eyes adjust to the sudden brightness.

The deranged stranger had vanished.

Chapter Two

Shaken by the ordeal, Elinore felt glad the rest of her work shift passed in an uneventful blur. Becca only hounded her once for assistance finding a book, and Lenora did absolutely nothing. Both librarians confirmed neither one had seen an irate man in a maroon sweater enter or leave the building.

Becca added, I think I would’ve noticed a tall, dashing man with an anger management problem.

I never said he was dashing. Elinore stuffed the Denzin book in her satchel. She wasn’t sure why she felt the urge to keep the thing, but a nagging feeling tugged at her every time she tried to put it down. It felt like an itch inside her chest she couldn’t scratch.

Did you check with Jack to see if he saw anything?

I didn’t even ask. He was too busy cleaning the women’s bathroom.

Elinore slung the satchel over her shoulder. She felt sorry for the page. He tended to get all the crappy jobs heaped onto his plate. Elinore knew the clogged toilet couldn’t have been a fast task, but should she have asked Jack about the angry guy? It’s possible the page had finished early and witnessed the maroon-sweater guy exit.

After several minutes of tracking Jack down, he hadn’t seen the stranger either.

I guess you saw a ghost, Becca joked when Elinore reported back to the circulation desk.

Laughing weakly, Elinore couldn’t help but wonder if she’d conjured the man up. Was she so starved for male interaction she’d imagined the whole thing? She doubted it, but uncertainties still plagued her brain. Part of her wanted to forget the whole incident. It was too late in the evening to delve into deep psychoanalysis.

Insecurities niggled at Elinore’s brain as she nervously straightened her mustard cardigan. It was true most men never noticed her existence. She was a typical mousey girl with forgettable features and a timid nature. A blonde bombshell like Becca with the perfect body and made-up face distracted the male species from Elinore’s diminutive presence. Maybe she had imagined the guy?

I’ve gotta go, Elinore said, shaking her head to dispel the negative thoughts. She could sense Becca ready to delve into more hypothetical speculations about the stranger’s mysterious identity, and the idea made her insides squirm.

Good night, Elinore. See you bright and early Monday. Becca sounded too chipper for an early morning work shift. Elinore hated getting up early in the mornings. She believed any respectable work place should begin punctually at noon.

Elinore left the library and headed home, trying to avoid as much of the early autumn cold as possible. Street lamps illuminated the cracked sidewalk, and she looked up to see if any stars twinkled in the night sky. They didn’t. She lived two blocks away from the library in the same ranch-style home she grew up in—with her father.

Unfortunately, after college Elinore moved back home to look after her father, Harry Dullard. Since the passing of her mother, the stubborn old man had become even more reliant on Elinore. Though the old coot would never admit it.

She hurried toward their red brick house with its minimal landscaping and checked the mailbox before entering. Her father never got the mail. If Elinore ever left for an extended vacation, she would come home to an overflowing mailbox.

Dad, I’m home, she called, kicking off her shoes and hanging her purse on the coatrack by the door. All the lights were turned on in their home, so she knew the old man was awake.

Kitchen, her father yelled, and she made her way down the hall toward their recently renovated kitchen. The huge room had been treated to a major face-lift with brand new Corian countertops, resurfaced wood floor, and subway tiles accenting the walls.

Harry Dullard sat at a little table eating a slice of carrot cake Elinore had made earlier that day. She loved baking, and she usually baked some type of dessert at least once a week. This week’s version entailed spiced carrot cake with homemade cream cheese frosting. Not a fan favorite, but still a delicious treat.

I see you put that rabbit food you eat in here, her dad said, scraping at a piece of orange vegetable.

It’s a carrot, Dad, thus the name of the cake.

Just ‘cause you’re a vegetarian doesn’t mean you should subject everyone else to it, he grumbled. Harry Dullard thought the world revolved around meat and potatoes.

You liked the cake when Mom used to make it. Elinore slid into a chair next to him. She noticed he’d put out an extra plate and fork and took a generous slice of cake for herself.

Your mother chopped the carrots smaller.

Smiling, Elinore licked at the extra frosting on her fork. It tasted sweet on her tongue, and she closed her eyes in pure bliss. Her mother’s recipes were darn good.

Harry and Eva Dullard were high school sweethearts that both ended up teaching at the same school. Eva had the classic beauty of Ava Gardner while Harry resembled Frank Sinatra—without the melodious voice. Her parents were in their thirties before Elinore made a surprise, unplanned appearance.

Mr. Darcy, a long-legged, orange tabby, jumped onto Elinore’s lap. She fed the cat frosting from her finger while he purred his