The Ghost and the Bogus Bestseller

by Cleo Coyle

  Brainert shrugged. “The picture is probably a surrogate.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere. If Jessica Swindell is a pseudonym for another author and the photo is bogus, then it very well could be an old picture of Emma Hudson!”

  “Pen, seriously. Why do you care?”

  “Why is it you don’t? You usually love a literary mystery. Remember the Poe Code? We broke that together. The brow here may be lower, but the mystery is just as puzzling.”

  Brainert shook his head. “Leave it alone, please? It’s not worth your time. Shades of Leather is no more than flash-in-the-pan fiction, written for a quick buck. You know very well this is not the type of book that backlists. It will be forgotten when next year’s sexy new thriller bats its eyes at the reading public.”

  “That’s not the point—” I tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t hear it.

  Suddenly, his smartphone belted out a few bars from a Bernard Herrmann score. As he read the text, a pained expression crossed his narrow face.

  “Problems at Movie Town. I must summon Larry Eaton to clear the drains in the restrooms. If his power flusher fails, tomorrow’s kickoff for our comparative film lecture series is bound for disaster!”

  “Not Pride and Prejudice and Austenland? I was looking forward to that double feature—”

  “That’s next Sunday.” Brainert bolted for the door almost as fast as Emma Hudson did. “Tomorrow is Professor Shirley Anthor, our top local authority on medieval history, comparing the Arthurian tropes in Excalibur with Monty Python and the Holy Grail!”

  “Wait! Are you coming to the Quibblers meeting Monday night?”

  “I’ll be late,” he called over his shoulder. “There’s a Faculty Affairs meeting. We’re voting on a suitable replacement for Dr. Ridgeway.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Night Caller

  Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary.

  —Edgar Allan Poe

  IT WAS HALF past eleven when I finally crawled between the sheets and set my eyeglasses on the night table, right next to the store’s reading copy of Jessica Swindell’s Shades of Leather.

  Weeks ago, Sadie had devoured the book cover to cover and filled me in on the story. Because it wasn’t my “cup of cocoa,” to quote Professor Parker, I read only the first eighty pages, which gave me the premise and the lay of its literary landscape (lay being the operative word). With its blockbuster status and so many customers asking for it, the book didn’t need much hand-selling from me, so I switched to a stack of other new titles.

  After this trying day, I would have preferred a Sally Snoops adventure, my favorite comfort read from childhood. But I felt compelled to complete Swindell’s bestseller for another reason: to discover any possible connection to the death of Emma Hudson. And (could it be?) Professor Kevin Ridgeway.

  I cracked the book, where I’d left off, and began to read, aware my bedroom felt warmer than usual.

  No ghost, not tonight.

  Jack had skipped out on me around dinnertime. He did that on occasion—not unlike a living man, his energies and interest seemed to wax and wane.

  Of course, I’d been crazy busy all evening, helping Sadie with the store, getting a meal on the table for Spencer and his little friend. Amy seemed a nice enough girl, though her visit presented complications.

  When my mobile phone vibrated, I snatched it up, hoping it was the girl’s mother finally calling me back. Hours ago, I’d tried to get through to the woman, with no luck.

  The phone number Brainert gave me rang a resort’s front desk on an island in the Mediterranean. A young man with a thick Italian accent took my message for Amy’s mom but warned they were a “digital detox” resort. Mobile phones were collected upon check-in—so as not to disturb the retreat’s “tranquility.” Consequently, guests were only permitted to place calls in a special area, twice a day.

  Unfortunately, the call coming now wasn’t one of them.

  Seymour Tarnish, my intrepid postman, was texting me:

  PARROT UPDATE!

  Call me if UR not in dreamland.

  I did call. But before the birdman launched into his fine-feathered report, I asked a favor.

  “What kind of favor?” Seymour asked skeptically.

  “You’re the fastest reader I know. And you have a photographic memory—”

  “True and true.”

  “—which is why I want you to come by the shop to pick up a novel. I want you to read it and give me your expert opinion.”

  “Hey, sure! Anything for a free book. What is it?”

  “Shades of Leather. It’s a new thriller that—”

  “Already have it, Pen. Your aunt sold it to me last week. I couldn’t help myself. Not after all the attention the thing got on TV.”

  “TV? I thought it was viral social media that made it big.”

  “Yeah, but the kickoff really began on The Chat. Then Tina Talks did a call-in about the book with a text-a-palooza scroll. The social media multiplied the exposure, and every late-night show in La-La Land made a joke about it.”

  “I’m still surprised you’re reading it.”

  “I do, on occasion, peruse more than Shadow and Doc Savage reprints. So what is it you need to know about this trendy, tumescent thriller?”

  “Everything. But first you have to hear me out . . .”

  I finally revealed to Seymour what Emma Hudson alleged in our shop—that her picture was on the book jacket, labeled as Jessica Swindell’s author photo.

  “So Ciders was right? The woman was unbalanced after all?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What do you mean maybe? You really didn’t tell me much at the house today.”

  “How could I with Ciders bellowing down at us?”

  “Well, tell me now!”

  “In my opinion”—not to mention Jack’s—“the suicide scene looked staged.”

  “You think someone croaked her?”

  “Like I said, maybe.”

  “And why do you want me to read the book?”

  “To look for any local connection you can find. Brainert’s professor friend Kevin Ridgeway was run down on the shoulder of a road this past week. I found evidence that he bought an entire case of books for the author to sign. I suspect he might have known Jessica Swindell. I think she could be living right here in Rhode Island, or maybe Boston. That’s where he used to live.”

  “Pen, that’s an ‘I suspect’ and an ‘I think.’”

  “What I know is that something bogus is going on with that bestseller. A dozen mysteries are swirling around it—including the fact that J. Brainert Parker wants nothing to do with solving any of them. He even tried to talk me out of investigating.”

  “Busybody Brainert? The Sally Snoops of American lit? That sure doesn’t sound like him.”

  “He knows more than he’s letting on. I’m certain of it. A close read of the book might give us some clues, and I don’t have the time. I’ve got my hands full with the shop, and my son, and—”

  “What’s wrong with Spencer?”

  “He ditched classes without permission and brought home a house guest.”

  “Wruh-oh! Thirty lashes! Are you putting him on bread and water?”

  “Oh, please. You sound like Jack!”

  “Who?”

  “Uh, nobody—Jack and the Beanstalk. He rationalized bad behavior, too. Can you finish the book before the Quibblers meeting Monday night?”

  “Heck, yeah. The font is easy on the eyes. And the type is young-adult-saga size. I’ll power-read through the climax—and I’ll bet there’s more than one, if you get my drift!”

  “Thanks, Seymour, I knew I could count on you.”

  “Hey, I came through for that poor bird, too.”

  “The bird, that’s right! How is Emma’
s parrot? Did Ciders give you custody?”

  “Yeah, and custody is expensive. Waldo is spending the night at Dr. Rudkin’s Animal Hospital on Quincy Road, to the tune of three hundred smackers.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “Observation, mostly. The doc’s afraid he might have gotten a chill from the door being open. Plus, there’s that nasty molting issue. But if all goes well, I’ll be picking up Waldo tomorrow. Soon enough he’ll be good as new. I’m just glad I didn’t have to take the dog, too.”

  “Dog? What dog?”

  “Emma Hudson’s dog.”

  “She had a dog? What kind of dog?”

  “Search me. I never actually saw it. The first time I had her sign for a letter, Mrs. Hudson had to lock the pooch in the bathroom when she heard me climbing the stairs. It sounded like one of those little yapping lap-dogs. I could always hear it snarling behind the door when I dropped by. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t personal. That canine hated all of humanity.”

  “But I saw no evidence there was a dog, and I was all over that apartment before the chief arrived. Do you think it got out and ran off?”

  “No. And neither does Ciders—because all evidence of the dog was gone, too. No bowl. No leash. No flea collars. But I know what I know because, Pen, canine awareness is a vital facet of mail delivery.”

  This was an unpleasant new wrinkle.

  Did Emma Hudson give her dog away in anticipation of suicide? If she did, why didn’t she find a home for her poor parrot, too? And if she was murdered, why steal her dog—and all evidence that the pet even existed?

  Just then, I heard an electronic beep.

  “My Hot Pockets are ready!” Seymour declared.

  “Midnight snack?”

  “It’s Saturday night, Pen. I’m livin’ large.”

  CHAPTER 17

  The Big Sleep

  This was the best time of day, when I could lie in the vague twilight, drifting off to sleep, making up dreams inside my head . . .

  —Sylvia Plath, “Superman and Paula Brown’s New Snowsuit”

  I COLLAPSED BACK against my pillows. By now the time was close to midnight. Tomorrow would be a busy day, and I needed to get some rest. Yet sleep didn’t come.

  In the blurry darkness, the ticking alarm clock seemed to sync with my heartbeat, its steady throb pulling me back to when I shared my bed with a living, breathing husband and father, someone to discuss my worries with.

  In all honesty, things were never easy with Calvin. We wedded too young and too soon, each of us believing we’d pledged ourselves to someone different. Most days we were both unhappy. But at least he was with me, a proximal partner. And tonight, in the solitude of this empty bedroom, listening to the ticking away of my minutes on earth, I felt a tug of longing for my married days.

  It was then I felt him. The temperature in my bedroom plunged, sending a shiver from the back of my neck to the tips of my blanket-tucked toes.

  Finally, the ghost spoke.

  So now you’re sleeping on the job?

  I smiled. “Tell me, Jack, what should I be doing?”

  Workin’ the case.

  “I am. I spoke to Seymour, and he’s reading—”

  That’s not what I mean. When I was a cop, most murders I saw were plain old street crimes. Straight, ugly violence. Solving them was basic. Two plus two. As a PI, I was hired because things didn’t add up. And, honey, forget about straight—some of these cases twisted me like a pretzel.

  “I know. I’ve been reading your case files.”

  Then you should also know: Whether I found ’em on the street or among the elite, when a corpse went cold, the first question I asked was always the same. What was the motive?

  “That’s my problem. I don’t know the motive. All I have are two dead bodies, both with a strange link to a big bestseller; a mystery author; a sick parrot; and a kidnapped dog.”

  Funny thing—

  “Funny? What’s funny about homicide?”

  You’re right. Jack chuckled, and a cool breeze seemed to caress my cheek. Murder’s not usually a giggle party. But the details of your case remind me of two I worked when my ticker still tocked—a pair of capers that started with a kidnapped mutt and ended with solving a mystery around a missing author.

  “You’ll have to help me find the file downstairs, so I can read about it.”

  Oh, I can do better than that . . .

  I was going to ask what he meant, but I yawned instead. My limbs grew heavy and my awareness sluggish, as if an anchor were dragging me down, farther and farther into a drowsy sea. Finally, my eyelids closed, and—

  I heard a sharp noise, like a car horn in traffic.

  “Wake up, doll. We’re here.”

  I opened my eyes. What in the world? I thought. Or more like what world? Because it wasn’t one I recognized . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  I WAS NO longer lying in a darkened bedroom. I was sitting in a splash of noonday sun in the back of an antique yellow taxi, complete with a boxy meter and an old-style flag switch. There were no seat belts on the hard leather cushion, and the safety glass between me and the driver was missing.

  Outside the cab’s window, the bustling crowd on the bright Manhattan sidewalk was costumed like extras in an RKO feature. Men wore suits with ties; women wore skirts, hats, and little white gloves. Not a sneaker or T-shirt in sight.

  Then there were the cars—if you could call them that. They looked more like long, bulky boats on wheels, edged in chrome, each emblazoned with heirloom names like Packard, Hudson, DeSoto, and Studebaker.

  Though my surroundings resembled the hard-boiled B movies I’d watched growing up, there was one significant difference between the world of the silver screen and the one I currently inhabited. Instead of film noir’s gentle play of light and shadow, everything here was drenched in brilliant Technicolor.

  I was snapped back to—well, let’s call it reality—when the big man beside me thumb-flipped the cabbie a fifty-cent piece.

  “Four bits, kid. Keep the change.”

  The gravelly voice was Jack Shepard’s. But it was no longer in my head. I could actually hear it. The deep rumbling seemed as real as the noise of the bulky traffic around me; as real as the stench of unleaded gasoline and unfiltered cigarettes; as real as the soft feel of cotton gloves on my hands.

  The white gloves, as it turned out, were the only part of my wardrobe that supplied any comfort. My feet were imprisoned in stacked pumps with heels higher than I ever wore. Constricting lingerie pinched my flesh. A too-tight skirt swathed my legs like a mummy’s bandages. And the belted jacket that matched the skirt felt about as supple as furniture upholstery.

  “Where are we, Jack?”

  “Fifth Avenue. We’re here to see a man about a dog—”

  “Dog? What about the missing author?”

  “We’ll get to it. Be patient. That’s what good detectives have, doll, patience.”

  He exited the cab. Then he turned to take my white-gloved hand in his, and I stared into steel gray eyes. The color practically matched his fedora. He’d tipped it back enough to show some of his short sandy hair.

  Despite his softness toward me, Jack Shepard was an intimidating presence, the kind of man no sensible person would trifle with. The hard line of his square jaw was barely blunted by a Barbasol-scented shave, a nicety that made the dagger-shaped scar branding his anvil chin seem even more dangerous.

  His double-breasted suit, cut for shoulders as broad as Fifth Avenue, tapered to a trim waist, and I knew there’d be a snub-nosed .38 tucked into the shoulder holster beneath his lapels. With long legs spread wide, his presence was so masculine, so alive and vital that I nearly gasped—

  I yelped instead.

  Stepping out of the taxi, I felt my head jutting back. Bobby pin
s rained down as I realized something attached to my cranium struck the roof of the cab. I managed to catch the offending object before it tumbled onto the sidewalk.

  “A hat? Really, Jack! When have you ever seen me wear anything on my head when the temperature wasn’t below zero?”

  “When you’re with me, sweetheart, you gotta blend in—and that’s one stylish cake-topper I put on you. Real velvet, and pricey, too. It’s from Saks Fifth Avenue.”

  An undone lock of hair drooped in front of my eyes.

  “I’ll need to fix myself up before you take me anywhere.”

  With a nod, Jack tucked my arm under his, and we crossed the sidewalk to a posh office building. “I know the door jockey here. He and I lose scratch at the same bookie.”

  Jack greeted the uniformed doorman, slipping him a tip. The man grinned wide, winked amicably at me, and pulled open the ornate door. We entered a mirror-lined lobby with a ceiling so high that the faintest sound echoed.

  “Okay,” Jack whispered. “Hurry it up and get your head on straight.”

  As Jack chatted with the doorman, I regarded my outlandish appearance in the curve-hugging red suit and a pink blouse with a neck bow bigger than a Christmas wreath.

  Expelling a resigned sigh, I set to work on my appearance.

  My undone hair had been coiled like a copper snake, and it took a bit of effort to re-form that swirl. When I finished, I topped my tresses with the ridiculously high hat in the shape of a cork from an old wine bottle. Once crowned, I did a little touch-up on my face with the vintage cosmetics I found in my purse.

  As I powdered the shine off my nose, I couldn’t help overhearing a conversation between an older man and his female secretary.

  “Are you listening?” the man snapped as they moved across the lobby. “Mr. and Mrs. Stuart Emory will be in to sign those documents this afternoon. I know everyone is curious about the new Mrs. Emory, but I do not want our law firm to turn into a three-ring circus when they arrive.”

  “You can’t blame the secretarial pool for being curious,” the woman replied. “Sabrina Emory is suddenly one of the richest women in Manhattan. Her name is all over the society pages. Yet no one knows what she looks like.”