The Ghost and the Bogus Bestseller

by Cleo Coyle

  When the calls were finished, I presented the chief with the evidence that Jack and I had found, from the footsteps on the stairs to the simmering stew.

  “Uh-huh,” said Ciders.

  I then reiterated the reason for my visit.

  “I came to return Emma Hudson’s gloves—and get the payment for Shades of Leather, the bestselling book she took. She was hysterical about it. Yet it’s not here now. Someone must have removed it from this apartment, and I think that someone might have something to do with her death. At the very least, the person must be found and questioned.”

  “Uh-huh,” Ciders replied again. “And where are those gloves you said you came to return?”

  “I left them in my car.”

  “Well, maybe Emma Hudson left your book in her car.”

  I gritted my teeth. This conversation is going nowhere!

  Sure it is, doll. It’s going in circles.

  “Chief, if she was so disturbed by Shades of Leather that she wanted to kill herself, why jump here? On her way back from town, she would have crossed the Johnson Street Bridge. That’s a two-hundred-foot drop to the creek below—”

  Ciders grunted. “Who knows why she jumped where she jumped. Crazy people do crazy things. Wanda Clark called her ‘unhinged.’ And your aunt confirmed it.”

  “But—”

  Suddenly, I was talking to the chief’s hand.

  “Until more evidence presents itself, I’m treating this as a suicide. We’re only waiting for the medical examiner to make it official.” The hand became a finger, and it pointed to the door. “You’re done here, Penelope. You can go now.”

  I opened my mouth, but Ciders mimicked the one monkey in three who’s always covering his ears.

  At least he’s got the species right, Jack said. You’re talking to a goon from Saskatoon—”

  “Huh?”

  Your little town’s top cop is thicker than a tree stump. Stop bumping your gums and use your peepers. Make like Norman Rockwell and paint a mental picture of the crime scene. And quick, before the long arm of the law tosses you out for keeps.

  As I left Ciders in the kitchen, I heard him making a call to the still absent medical examiner. So I followed Jack’s suggestion the twenty-first-century way—I took out my smartphone and started snapping digital memories. After quick shots of the two bedrooms, I returned to the main room.

  As a bookseller, I couldn’t help shooting some of the valuable titles Emma had collected. I noticed a handwritten Post-it note on top of one of the stacks, and I took a close-up.

  Another note, written on a piece of lined white notebook paper, listed a dozen recently published books. I photographed that, too.

  The absence of a smartphone or a computer seemed odd. In this day and age, who didn’t have some kind of digital device?

  Don’t forget, it was the mug shot of the author on the back of your pilfered potboiler that set the dead woman off. Search those old photos you noticed when you came in. A trip down Emma Hudson’s memory lane could provide a clue . . .

  The box of old pictures and photo albums was still beside the door. With my leather gloves on, I rummaged through it. Some of the loose snapshots were black-and-white. Others were color Polaroids, and one caught my eye.

  A young woman with wild dark hair stood facing the camera in a long flowered dress. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a close-up. The colors were faded and the image was fuzzy, blurring the woman’s features. But the diamond-shaped window in the background was a dead giveaway.

  This cheap little “instant” Polaroid picture had the same background as Jessica Swindell’s artfully done author photo on the dust jacket of Shades of Leather.

  I flipped the picture. On its back I found a hand-scrawled date and nothing else:

  May 19, 1972

  Tuck that mug shot down your blouse, the ghost urged. One five-finger discount is as good as another, and the Hudson dame owes you.

  “I can’t, Jack. This is a crime scene, and I shouldn’t remove potential evidence. But I can take my own pictures of the picture . . .”

  And I did, front and back.

  Handling the Polaroid, I noticed traces of a sticky, whitish adhesive on the back and deduced it had slipped out of one of the photo albums. That stack seemed promising. But as I reached for the album on top, a loud voice barked—

  “Penelope Thornton-McClure!”

  “Yes, Chief?”

  “I thought I told you to leave. Now get a move on!”

  I slunk out the door and down the steps, listening to Jack curse the whole time about the photo albums being a missed opportunity.

  At the bottom of the staircase, I found an impatient Seymour.

  “So what’s going on?” he asked.

  I lowered my voice. “Ciders believes the woman committed suicide. I don’t. Any minute now, he’ll be down to ask you about that registered letter. Do you know anything about it?”

  Seymour grinned. “This mailman knows all, including the contents.”

  “Really? Let me see the envelope.”

  He handed me the thick legal-sized letter with the yellow registered sticker attached. It was sent from the law firm of Mitchell and Olivetti in Providence, Rhode Island.

  “Seymour, how can you possibly know what’s inside? It’s sealed.”

  “We postal employees have our ways,” he said. Then he lifted one eyebrow high enough to touch his receding hairline. It was a gesture he’d perfected back in eighth grade, a way to appear (as he put it) “enigmatic . . . you know, the way Mr. Spock looks when he’s trying to explain to Doc McCoy something he’s too stupidly human to understand.” (Among other things, Seymour was locally famous for forming Quindicott’s first official Star Trek fan club.)

  Undeterred, I lifted my own eyebrow. “Spill it.”

  Seymour shrugged. “Thin envelope, pocket flashlight.”

  Jack laughed. It’s official. Cornpone-cott is packed with busybodies.

  “Okay, Seymour, what did you see?”

  “Divorce papers, terminating Emma Hudson’s marriage to Philip Gordon Hudson of Millstone, Rhode Island—”

  “What are you two gossiping about?!” Chief Ciders bellowed from the top of the stairs.

  “The stormy weather,” Seymour shot back.

  “Well shut your trap and get up here already.” Ciders flashed us a sour look and went back inside.

  “I’m worried about that parrot,” Seymour confided.

  “Why?”

  “Waldo has a delicate condition—several, in fact.”

  “You know this how?”

  “I deliver the PetMeds, remember? And did you see all those feathers? That poor bird is molting. I know birds. I grew up with them. My mom had more feathered friends than the Birdman of Alcatraz.”

  That gave me an idea.

  “I think Waldo needs a proper home, don’t you? Emma left no instructions, and you and I both know an animal shelter is no place for a parrot with delicate conditions.”

  Not to mention one that’s a witness to murder.

  Seymour was already nodding. “You’re right, Pen. I’ll convince Chief Ciders to let me take care of it. He knew my mom and her bird fetish. I’m sure I can win at least temporary custody, if only because the chief will be too lazy to drive Waldo to the shelter in Newport.”

  “I expect you to fill me in at the Quibblers meeting on Monday.”

  “Oh, I’ll be there. With bells on.” Seymour let out a cackle. “Bells on, get it?”

  Of course, I got it. Everyone in town knew our mailman moonlighted as the owner and operator of Quindicott’s only ice cream truck.

  “Pen? Are you still here?” Ciders bellowed from above. “I told you to vacate the premises. Get out of here now or I’ll have you arrested for trespassing! And you, postal worker—” He pointed
at Seymour. “Stop jawing with the nosy book lady and deliver yourself to me. I’ve got my own questions for you!”

  With a sigh, Seymour eyed the four-story staircase and shot me a look. “If I collapse from exhaustion, I’m holding Ciders responsible.”

  “Be strong, Seymour.”

  “See ya later, Pen,” he said before addressing his feet. “Let’s go, tired dogs. Make like Sir Edmund Hillary and mush me to the peak.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Into the Woods

  So into the woods you go again,

  You have to every now and then.

  —Stephen Sondheim

  AS I WATCHED Seymour huff and puff his way up to Emma Hudson’s apartment, I faced the wall of pines.

  “Well, Jack, now what?”

  You heard Chief Local-Yokel. He ordered you to go. But you should have a look around first. That birdbrain mailman should confound the copper for at least ten minutes.

  “Okay, but what am I looking for?”

  Remember what the lawman said. He’s treating this as a suicide, until more “evidence” presents itself.

  “So we’ll have to find some, won’t we?”

  Now that’s the sort of sweet talk I like to hear.

  “Where shall we look first?”

  Remember those feet coming down the stairs?

  “I remember they never came around the corner.”

  Then where did your suspect go?

  “There must be a quick way out of here. Maybe a shortcut to a backstreet . . .”

  Emma’s apartment was at the rear of the house. To get here, I’d followed a redbrick sidewalk, but the sidewalk ended at the base of the staircase. Beyond the steps, a wide dirt path took over where the bricks left off. The path hugged the foundation’s perimeter, disappearing around the next bend. But (and this was a big but) the path was blocked by a crumbling six-foot trellis. Many of the wooden bars had rotted and fallen to the ground.

  “Anyone trying to climb over that mess would have made a lot of noise. I would have heard it. But there’s nowhere else to go . . .”

  The overgrown evergreens effectively walled in the dirt path, and the trees appeared impenetrable. Drooping branches overlapped in an interlocking curtain of sharp needles with thick weeds tangled at each trunk’s base.

  “Nobody could get through all that without real effort.”

  And a hacksaw.

  “I would have seen or heard someone struggling, and I obviously didn’t.”

  It’s a cinch. Your phantom perp disappeared into thin air.

  “Gee, sounds like someone I know.”

  You think I’m a product of your imagination?

  “I’m not crazy, Jack. I know you’re real—to me, anyway. And I know what I heard.”

  Refusing to believe I’d imagined those footsteps, I continued looking for another way out. And I found it. Between two of the trees along the dirt path, just before the crumbling trellis, I noticed a patch of beaten ground covered in nettles. No weeds here. And when I quietly pushed a few low branches aside—

  “Look, Jack!”

  Behind the curtain of pine stretched a footpath.

  Sweet and alreet, you’ve found the hidden trail! Okay, baby, let’s blaze it.

  Holding back the wet branches, I stepped between the trees and onto the path. The grove was heavily shaded, the scent of pine as powerful as the earthy smells from the fresh rain on the moss and weeds. Beneath my feet, the path was soft, but not muddy.

  “I don’t see any footprints. These pine needles are like wall-to-wall carpeting.”

  You’re in the woods now, baby. Might as well look for bread crumbs . . .

  As I walked along, the little forest grew taller and the shade deeper. Chilly breezes rustled the long branches, and the green giants moved around me, as if they were alive.

  They ARE alive, doll, they’re trees.

  “They’re creepy.”

  Maybe you only think they’re creepy because you make a living selling their dead.

  “What a thing to say!”

  It’s true, isn’t it? All those blowhards whose daydreams you peddle print their petty parables on paper. Paper is pulped wood. Maybe these greenies can sense you buy and sell their stiffs.

  “Don’t be ridiculous! Trees aren’t that sentient.”

  And ghosts don’t exist.

  “Most living people would agree with that statement.”

  So did I, doll, before my lead poisoning. And when I was alive, I preferred the city. Concrete, stone, glass—you can trust a thing that’s already dead. It won’t judge you. And it won’t change on you . . .

  The colors were muted in the deep shade. But a flash of shiny crimson caught my eye—hard to miss that color amid all these earth tones.

  “Probably just a piece of trash, maybe a candy wrapper . . .”

  Don’t assume it till you’ve seen it.

  A few more steps and I was staring at a glossy piece of “dead wood” stuck to a pine branch. Jack was right. This was no candy wrapper. It was a torn section from the dust jacket of Shades of Leather—the red couch edition. The slick paper was dry, too. Not rain-soaked like everything else around us.

  “Emma’s book thief must have come through here after the storm—”

  Just then, I heard something moving. Not something small like a squirrel or raccoon, something much larger. I glanced around the spooky grove. “Do you think our suspect could still be lurking nearby?”

  Who knows what shadows lurk in the hearts of trees. Keep your peepers peeled, honey.

  Jack’s close presence always chilled the air. Now I shivered for another reason. I could sense someone in the woods with me, and moving closer. But I couldn’t tell from what direction.

  “Jack, which way should I go?”

  The ghost didn’t answer. I listened harder. A cold raindrop slipped from a swaying branch and slithered down my neck. High above, a black-billed raven cawed a warning. Unseen birds fluttered and flew away.

  “Jack? Are you there?”

  Heavy footsteps came up behind me. Before I could turn, a strong hand clamped my shoulder, and a deep voice barked in my ear—

  “What are you doing here?”

  I spun out of the strong grip and found myself staring at a starched blue uniform shirt with a great big badge pinned to it.

  “Eddie?”

  Deputy Chief Eddie Franzetti frowned down at me.

  “Answer me, Pen. Are you out here alone?”

  “Yes, I’m alone.”

  “I heard you talking to someone.”

  Yeah, copper, that would be me!

  The ghost was back. Jack, where did you go?!

  I never left.

  Well, you better keep quiet now. Don’t distract me.

  Impossible, sweetheart. The ghost’s deep voice laughed flirtatiously. You know I always distract you.

  I’m not kidding, Jack. This “copper” doesn’t hear ghosts. If he thinks I do, the next time we “dialogue” will be in a hospital psych ward.

  CHAPTER 10

  Out of the Woods

  I had reached the point when I could not see anything clearly ahead. I needed help, and I got it.

  —Ross Macdonald

  “PENELOPE? PEN? DID you hear me?”

  “What?! What is it?”

  “I asked if you were feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine, Eddie, just fine.”

  Stop humoring him. He’s Chief Ciders’ flunky, isn’t he? Tell him to blow.

  I certainly would not. I’d known Deputy Chief Eddie Franzetti since grade school. Once upon a time, I even had a not-so-secret crush on him. The reason wasn’t much of a mystery. Eddie was kind, handsome, easy to talk to, and my late older brother’s best friend. He was also Pete’s fellow drag ra
cer and took his senseless death in a road race as hard as I did; harder, actually, because Eddie blamed himself for egging my brother on.

  After Pete’s fatal accident, Eddie stopped racing. He sold his vintage Mustang and parlayed the money into his education. With a degree in hand, he left the part-time job at his family’s pizza shop for a full-time career in law enforcement.

  Now married with children, he was next in line for the top spot on the Quindicott police force—though it was beginning to feel like he’d been waiting for Ciders to retire longer than Prince Charles waited to ascend the throne.

  “You shouldn’t be out here, Pen.” Decades younger than the chief, Eddie already had the intimidating “Ciders glower” down pat.

  “Why shouldn’t I be out here?” I shot back. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Chief Ciders notified me about the suicide and asked me to locate the deceased’s car. I did. Now I’m looking for a shortcut up to the house. Okay? Now it’s your turn.”

  “I’ve been following the path a suspect took after leaving Emma Hudson’s apartment.”

  “A suspect? In what?”

  “Emma Hudson’s death. We aren’t convinced it was a suicide.”

  “We? Who is we? It can’t be the chief. I already know what he thinks.”

  Then you don’t know much, do ya?

  Quiet, Jack!

  “Did you hear me, Pen? Who is WE?”

  I fluttered my hands, thinking fast. “It’s just a figure of speech! The Queen’s English, you know, the royal we . . . ?” I then recounted for Eddie my dealings with Emma Hudson—from her bizarre reaction to the pilfered book to the near wreck with Wanda and the strange scene inside the apartment.

  Eddie tipped back his hat and scratched his head. “Did you actually see this person leave the house?”

  “No. But I heard footsteps on the stairs. Then I came around the corner of the house, and the person had vanished. That’s why I’m out here. I’m tracing the suspect’s steps.” I pointed to the glossy piece of torn book jacket stuck to the pine branch. “See? Evidence!”

  Eddie’s highly dubious expression told me three things: