The Ghost and the Bogus Bestseller

by Cleo Coyle

  “That’s the way Mr. Emory wants it, and that is how it will be—”

  As the pair entered the elevator, I noticed Jack in the mirror.

  “Ready?” his deep voice rumbled in my ear.

  “All finished,” I said and turned to face him. “What do you think?”

  His gray eyes registered pleasure as he swept me up and down. “You look swell, baby. Just swell. How do you feel?”

  “Like a hood ornament.”

  “Good.” Jack laughed. “You should fit right in.”

  “Where are we going? A used-car lot?”

  “Nah.” He took my arm and hooked it around his. “On the other hand, the place I’m taking you sure does make a mint on refurbishing older models.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Hearts and Flowers

  Sincerity. If you can fake that, you’ve got it made.

  —George Burns

  LA TRÉS JOLIE Casa de Beauty, on the corner of Forty-ninth and Lexington Avenue, was just a fox-trot away from the Waldorf Astoria.

  Despite the stupefying mash-up of its name, Jack described the beauty parlor as “a swanky affair.”

  The decor was Streamline Moderne with a distaff twist, pink the dominant shade, and an overarching theme of hearts and flowers. Fresh flowers were everywhere, so many that the perfumed atmosphere was downright cloying, though not cloying enough to mask the acrid chemical odors from their costly “beauty treatments.”

  Then there were the hearts. For a moment, I thought we were entering the office of a cardiologist. The heart-shaped door opened to a waiting area with heart-shaped mirrors and love seats with heart-shaped backs.

  Even the wall clock displayed little pink hearts to mark the hours and a pair of Cupid’s arrows to do the pointing. But the biggest impression on the clientele was the coronary-themed fountain that pumped “genuine French champagne” (a little heart-shaped sign informed me of this).

  After watching the gaggle of stylish society women circling the bubbly, I leaned close to Jack. “They’re here for more than beauty treatments. The champagne pick-me-up seems to be the biggest draw.”

  “From the way these dames are tippling, it’s more like a pick-me-up-off-the-floor.”

  Moving safari-like through the thick pile of pink rug, my gaze drifted to the only other male on the premises—a beefy gentleman sausaged into a tux and collar.

  “Something’s hinky with that palooka,” Jack said. “He’s dressed smooth as Dick Powell, but he’s got a head like William Bendix.”

  “I doubt he’s part of the swanky decor.”

  “He’s muscle.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would a house of beauty need muscle?”

  “Because behind this bubbly curtain of beauty, they’re hiding a bushel of ugly.”

  Jack and I approached the shop’s counter. We waited a full minute, watching the pretty, young, pink-clad receptionist studiously ignore us. My loud “ahem” finally got her attention.

  Despite the woman’s tender years and innocent, (dare I say?) heart-shaped face, she immediately displayed a condescending grin.

  Jack nudged me. On the way over, he’d briefed me on our little play. Forcing a smile of sincerity, I announced—

  “I’d like a personal beauty consultation with Mr. Leroi.”

  The haughty young woman glanced down at her pink leather appointment book. Without opening it, she looked up again, her smirk morphing into a fake frown.

  “I’m so sorry. Mr. Leroi is busy for the entire afternoon, the entire week, actually.”

  “Hold on, lady,” Jack said as he reached into his lapel.

  The instant my partner made his move, William Bendix in Dick Powell’s tux thrust a hand into his own jacket—and the muscle wasn’t reaching for a bona fide PI license, either.

  I laid my hand on Jack’s strong arm and stepped in front of him. Leaning one elbow on the counter, I forced a wider smile. And this time when I spoke, my tone mimicked the imperious entitlement of our most obnoxious tourist season customers (always rich, usually from Newport).

  “What my overzealous bodyguard is trying to say is that I require an appointment with Mr. Leroi, and I require it immediately. I know my name isn’t in that cute little book of yours, but I’m sure you’ve heard of Mrs. Sabrina Emory.”

  The cackling around the magic fountain ceased. While the women spilled their champagne trying not to stare, William Bendix relaxed, his beady eyes returning to glazed indifference.

  “So,” I said. “Will Mr. Leroi see me?”

  “Oh, of course, Mrs. Emory, of course!” the receptionist babbled. “But at the moment, Henri is in Boudoir 101, administering a Hangover Heaven to Mrs. Stanford of the Park Avenue Stanfords—”

  “Which way?” I demanded.

  “Through that door. But you can’t—”

  “Yes, I can. I don’t need an escort. I’ll find Mr. Leroi myself.”

  I gripped Jack’s arm and dragged him through the curtained doorway.

  “Nice job, partner,” he rumbled in my ear.

  “I passed your test, didn’t I?” I whispered.

  “With flying colors.” He winked. “I didn’t take you into that posh office building for nothin’. Always keep your antennae up for gossip. It can open more doors and twist arms better than the biggest palooka-for-hire. Now listen good, partner, because I’m privy to some gossip myself—the celebrity kind.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Hedda Hopper’s column pegged Thelma Stanford as a well-heeled Hollywood lush who’s been holed up at the Waldorf since her Reno divorce. I checked on Henri Leroi’s background, and that’s just the sort of coin-heavy dame he likes to seduce.”

  “So?”

  “So, we’re going to expose this phony Frenchie, and give him a moment to savor thoughts of blackmail. Now, button those pretty lips. It’s my turn to do the talking.”

  Then Jack started walking—and this was no stroll. He moved so fast that I had to scurry to catch up, no mean feat in these retro stilts.

  “Jack, slow down—”

  His wall of muscle halted so abruptly I stumbled into it. Once again, bobby pins flew.

  With a shake of his head, Jack steadied me, but the damage was done. My tall tower of a hat was now leaning like Pisa’s, and my soufflé of a hairdo was deflating fast.

  Ignoring my renewed dishevelment, Jack cracked the door to 101, and together we peeked inside. I counted three cone-shaped hair dryers along the wall, all with domes large enough to double as ballistic missiles and connected to the ceiling by tubes of shimmering stainless steel. The empty reclining chairs under them were elaborate enough for zero gravity, but the fanciest seat in the house was in the center of the room.

  A cross between a dentist chair and a medieval rack, the seat was occupied by Henri’s sole customer—a slim woman of indeterminate age, swathed in a white smock and little else. I say “indeterminate age” because her face was obscured by tiny glass cubes filled with crushed ice and attached by suction cups to her skin.

  “Oh, Henri,” she moaned. “More ice to relieve my agony!”

  Wearing a white lab coat, Henri Leroi bent over a wheeled cart stacked with more glass cubes, and a wild assortment of decanters and vials filled with colored liquids, jellies, and powders.

  “I hear Dr. Frankenstein’s supplying Henri’s beauty products,” Jack whispered.

  Continental charm must count for a lot in this era, because Henri Leroi was far from an ideal man. Slightly paunchy with thinning dark hair, he sported the wormy mustache of a Three Stooges villain. When he spoke, his creaky accent was more faux than French, and his words were just as deceitful.

  “My dearest Thelma, ma jolie,” he cooed. “I wish to do so much more than relieve your pain, if only you would permit me.”

  “Don’t speak of
amour, Henri,” the woman replied, her voice muffled by enough frozen water to re-sink the Titanic.

  “Oh, ma belle femme, my blood runs so hot for you! I cannot contain my passion—”

  “Don’t speak of passion, Henri. Not yet.” The woman waved her hand. “Why, the ink is hardly dry on my divorce, and I’m still terribly hungover from last night’s soiree.”

  Henri swiped at a mock tear and patted the woman’s hand.

  “It pains me to see you suffer so. What more can I do for you, mon amour? Some of my tonic, perhaps?”

  “No, no. Your touch is soothing enough.”

  Encouraged by her words, Henri’s touch got a lot more soothing. Before we witnessed more than we bargained for, Jack coughed loudly.

  Henri looked up with the expression of a man who’d got caught stealing from St. Patrick’s poor box. He quickly regained his composure and squeezed Thelma Stanford’s hand.

  “Pardonnez-moi, ma chérie. Duty calls, but I shall return tout de suite.”

  Henri hurriedly crossed to the door and closed it behind him.

  “What is zee meaning of this!” he demanded.

  “It’s an emergency,” Jack informed him. “I need to talk to you about a dog.”

  Henri’s gaze shifted my way, and he smirked knowingly.

  “Oui, I see! Zis is an emergency beauty consultation, no?” Placing his thumb on his chin, he eyed me appraisingly. With his free hand, he ruffled my clothes. “Ze Santa Claus suit is all wrong! Ze color clashes with the red of her hair. Zis pink bow is ridiculous, and ze preposterous hat makes her look like a bottle of Chianti—a stale bottle of cheap Chianti. Oui, oui, you are correct, mon ami. This woman’s style is for the dogs—”

  “I’m talking about your wife’s dog, Henri. Or should I call you Henry . . . Henry Lembeck?”

  The man’s right hand groped for an electric button mounted on the wall. I alerted Jack to the threat. With a scowl, he ripped the button, and a long length of black electric cord, right out of the wall.

  “This is a private meeting, Lembeck. No muscle, get it?”

  “Monsieur, I protest! You mistake me for another.”

  “Can the vaudeville act. I know all about you, Lembeck. I checked with my old friends on the force. You have an arrest record as long as a gorilla’s arm, and you’re wanted in Louisville for freezing a dame’s freckles off with carbon dioxide, along with half her face—”

  “Zis, zis is not me—”

  Jack lurched forward, his fists bunched, and the faux-Frenchman leaped backward so fast that his spine slammed into a heart-shaped mirror. It cracked right down the middle.

  “You can stow the accent, too. The closest you ever got to France was Baton Rouge, where you did six months on a chain gang for passing bad checks. Need I say more?”

  “All right, just keep your voice down,” Henry Lembeck said, his Gallic accent suddenly gone, along with his bluster.

  “The Pekingese, Lembeck. Or I waltz into Boudoir 101 and tell rich Hollywood divorcée Mrs. Stanford all about your record—and your ex-wife.”

  “Okay, okay. I sold the pooch to a Beverly Hills couple.”

  “Details, Lembeck.”

  At Jack’s none-too-gentle prodding, Lembeck spilled the beans. He even turned over the uncashed check for the pooch.

  “They’re catching the Super Chief to the West Coast at three thirty,” Lembeck finished. “If you leave now, you can just make it.”

  Jack nodded once and jerked his thumb at the mirror.

  “I’d get that fixed if I were you. It’s seven years’ bad luck, and you’ve broken too many hearts already.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I SHIVERED AS a frigid mist swirled around me. Opening my eyes, I found myself back in my bedroom, squinting at the face of my windup alarm clock, which read 4:05 A.M. I’d kicked off my blankets during the strange dream. Now I dragged them over me again.

  “Jack, are you still there?” I yawned.

  I’m still here, the ghost whispered. Close those pretty peepers again and you’ll see . . .

  The ticking of the clock lulled me back to the past once more, until the ticktock was replaced by the frenzied barking of a little dog. My nose was tickled by diesel fumes, mingled with a cool salt wind off the ocean.

  Opening my eyes, I found myself standing outside a bustling terminal complex, next to a painted metal sign:

  51ST STREET PIER

  RMS QUEEN MARY

  PASSENGER EMBARKATION

  Around me, a horde of well-dressed, well-heeled ladies and gents streamed into the terminal’s cavernous interior. Nearby, chauffeurs and taxi drivers unloaded heaps of luggage from vintage cars.

  The dog yapped again, and I followed the sound to a gleaming Packard limousine, its whitewall tires scraping the curb. The doors were open, and in the back seat, a middle-aged matron was alternately cooing and shedding tears of joy. A feisty, tail-wagging red and gold Pekingese pawed at her fox stole while its busy pink tongue lapped her laughing face.

  Surrounded by more suitcases than a graveyard had headstones, the Packard was being unloaded by a hard-faced chauffeur with a gray mustache. As he struggled with a huge steamer, I finally saw Jack.

  His broad shoulders were lending some muscle to the chauffeur, and together they wrestled the heavy case to the pavement.

  As stevedores collected the suitcases, the chauffeur pumped Jack’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Shepard. Bennie the Bookie always said you were a straight shooter.”

  “Yeah, well, all that means is I pay off bum bets.”

  “It means more than that, Mr. Shepard. Mrs. Armitage is a good woman. She’s always been generous with me and my wife. Her husband’s death in the war was a raw deal. Losing Arianna, after being took by that despicable con artist, well, it nearly broke her in two, but you fixed things up for her. You did a good thing.”

  The chauffeur passed an envelope to the PI.

  “It’s double what you asked for. Mrs. Armitage insisted. She’s a generous woman, like I said, and she’s grateful to you.” He leaned closer. “I also got a hot tip for you on the fifth race at Belmont. A fast filly with real potential. You’ll find the details folded in with the dough—along with a lead on another job.”

  After a quick inspection, Jack tucked the envelope into his lapel pocket. Then he touched the brim of his fedora and offered his hand.

  “Wish Mrs. Armitage and her pooch a bon voyage for me, and thanks for the tip on the pony. You’re all right by me.”

  “Sweet ending to the story, I’ll admit,” I told Jack when he rejoined me. “But unless your client was the secret scribe of Lassie Come-Home, I don’t see that mysterious author you mentioned.”

  Jack lifted an eyebrow. “What you saw was a conniving ex-husband who did his ex-wife wrong. Keep that in mind.” Then he winked. “Anyway, you haven’t heard about the lead on the other job. If I hadn’t found the pooch, I wouldn’t have gotten myself mixed up with a murder in the pulp trade, complete with blood on a manuscript, and a missing author.”

  “Really? That sounds intriguing. I’m game. Where do we go from here?”

  “Sorry, baby, our next chapter will have to wait.”

  “Why?”

  Jack lifted his sleeve and showed me the large face of his windup wristwatch. “I’ve run out of time.”

  “Oh no. Don’t say that . . .”

  Looking down at me, his hard face softened. Then he stepped close, and my heart beat faster. With his rough hand, he tipped my chin north. But as he lowered his head, lips poised to brush mine, the steamship’s horn let out an ear-shattering blast, and Jack’s solid form began to fade.

  “Jack, wait! Don’t leave me!”

  One blink and I was back in my lonely Rhode Island bedroom, the clock on my nightstand ringing like crazy. With more force than ne
cessary, my hand reached out and slammed off the alarm.

  CHAPTER 19

  Breakfast for One

  I wake up every morning . . . and look at the obituary page. If my name is not on it, I get up.

  —Benjamin Franklin (attributed)

  IT WAS EIGHT A.M., and after the dreamy night with Jack, I was reluctant to roll out of bed. But, as they say, life goes on. At least, for me.

  Come to think of it, it went on for the ghost, too—if you count his afterlife.

  On my way to the kitchen to feed an insistent Bookmark her second breakfast, I passed through the living room. Spencer and Amy were already up, and so deep into their Avenging Angel video game world that they didn’t notice me.

  In the kitchen, I plied our “badass” marmalade-striped, mouse-killing kitty with kibbles, brewed a strong pot of Irish tea, and felt Jack’s absence.

  “Do you guys want some breakfast?” I called.

  “No, thank you, Mrs. McClure,” Amy replied. “We’ve already eaten.”

  “Yeah, Aunt Sadie made us oatmeal with walnuts and maple syrup. There’s more on the stove.”

  “Where is Aunt Sadie?” I asked, and wasn’t surprised by the answer.

  “Mr. Napp picked her up in his van,” Spencer called. “She’s having breakfast with him at the bakery. Then they’re meeting us at church—hey, what are you doing?!”

  “I’m making tea!”

  “Not you, Mom! I was talking to Amy.”

  Her precocious voice replied: “You can see very well what I’m doing, Spencer.”

  “I can see you used up all of your spirits,” my son shot back. “What are you going to do if you get in trouble again?”

  “I won’t,” Amy said with great confidence. “The gangsters think I’m dead, so they can’t see me anymore.”

  “I guess that’ll work,” Spence said doubtfully, “but you better hit the next speakeasy to pump up your spirit strength, because you’re going to need it later . . .”