The Ghost and the Bogus Bestseller

by Cleo Coyle

  Philip shook his head. “She liked bestsellers, but she could never keep the authors or titles straight. My father’s valuable collection held no value to Emma beyond what the books could earn at auction, which I thought was her plan.”

  Philip snorted. “Instead, she set up shop here in Quindicott, no doubt so she could be close to the money.”

  “What money?”

  Suddenly, Philip set his cocktail aside and rubbed his bleary eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Penelope, but I’m feeling a little woozy . . .”

  Just when things were getting interesting, the pretty daisy swoons.

  Don’t worry, Jack, I’m not finished with him yet.

  I tugged the man to his feet with one hand, while flagging the waiter with the other.

  “Come on, Philip. Let’s get you back to your room.”

  Suddenly, he grinned. “I like the sound of that!”

  CHAPTER 24

  Swinging with Mr. Happy

  The fact that three-fifths of an octopus’ neurons are not in their brain, but in their arms, suggests that each arm has a mind of its own.

  —Sy Montgomery, The Soul of an Octopus

  THIS, I DIDN’T count on.

  The bracing night air—and/or the thought of me accompanying him back to his room—revitalized the man faster than a thirty-two-ounce energy drink. Still tipsy, he draped one arm over my shoulder and whistled while we walked.

  On the lighted path from the restaurant to the Finch Inn, I pressed him again, asking what he meant when he said Emma was sticking “close to the money.”

  “As you may know, my father died last year—long before our divorce was finalized. Which means—”

  “That Emma legally inherits half of what you do.”

  “Of course, I won’t see a cent for months,” Philip said with a resigned shrug. “Most of father’s investments were in real estate, and the properties must be divested before funds can be distributed. I’m the youngest of five siblings, so my piece of pie will be small, no more than a few million.”

  The ghost groaned. Only a few million? The shame! How can this Alvin ever set foot in Newport again?

  “I confess, my resources have been limited in recent years. But . . .” He sucked in the salty ocean breeze. “Just yesterday I managed to turn everything around. I secured a bridge loan from a Federal Hill moneyman. Enough to kick-start several renovation projects, with a commitment for much more funding in the future.”

  “Federal Hill?” I echoed. “You mean the neighborhood in Providence? You were there yesterday?”

  “Yes.” He smirked. “Didn’t I just say that?”

  Jack, did you hear?!

  I got it, doll. Phil scores a big-time loan on the day his ex joins the angels? Interesting timing.

  His timing is the least of it. He told the police that he was in New York City. But Providence is only a short drive away!

  A guy only lies to the coppers when he has something to hide.

  And Hudson has plenty to hide, I told the ghost. This deal he’s describing isn’t with a bank, but a “Federal Hill moneyman.” Organized crime is still around in New England. He might have made another deal while he was at it, one that involved the murder of his ex-wife—

  Don’t jump the gun. In my day, moneymen weren’t the same as button men. I’m sure it’s the same in your day, too. If Philip wanted the button pushed on his wife, he was talking to the wrong kind of mobster.

  I shivered. What if he wasn’t?

  Haven’t you been listening? Hudson may have picked up your tab tonight, but he’s cheaper than Scrooge before his Christmas scare. He’s worried about losing a dime over a pooch and a parrot; why would he drop a bundle for a job he could do himself for nothing? Are you getting my drift, baby? Take it as a warning. If Hudson was in Providence, he was close enough to do Emma’s murder neat.

  Neat?

  All by his lonesome. That explains why there was no forced entry at Emma’s digs, no sign of a struggle. It may even explain that nice meal still simmering in its pot.

  You’re right—

  Which brings me back to my warning. Right now, you’re strolling alone in the dark with a possible murderer.

  As if I wasn’t already spooked enough (pardon the pun), Philip Hudson chose that moment to drop his gym-toned arm from my shoulder to my waist.

  “I saw your shiver,” he said through a toothy smile. “You feel it, too, don’t you? The chemistry?”

  I’ll give him something to feel. Just say the word!

  “Too fast for me, Philip.” I squirmed away from his touch.

  “I apologize,” Hudson quickly countered. “A little too much imbibing. Don’t be put off, Penelope. I was serious about talking business until dawn. Just talk, I promise. We have a lot to discuss.”

  “I really don’t think it will take that long to agree on consignment for a book collection. I assure you that you’ll get the highest possible bids. My aunt Sadie has decades of experience in the trade with a vast base of customers who collect—”

  “Forget the books! I have a more important proposition. One you really must consider.”

  We’d arrived at the bed-and-breakfast. It was after midnight, and the exterior lights were off. The ornate wraparound porch was illuminated only by the glow shining through the sitting room windows.

  As we crested the stairs, Philip suddenly grabbed my hand and pulled me toward a wicker love seat swing, hanging from the porch ceiling.

  “Please, sit with me and talk.”

  “No. It’s late and I should—”

  “Just listen. My father’s property holdings are in Millstone, amounting to over half the town. With the deal I’ve made, what I don’t inherit, I can buy up at fire-sale prices from my father’s estate. In a few years, those old, distressed properties can be transformed into profitable holdings.”

  “That’s very commendable. I’m sure you can—”

  “I don’t want to do it alone. I want your help.”

  “Mine?”

  “I want you to fix Millstone the way you transformed Quindicott.”

  “But, I didn’t do that by myself!”

  “Of course you did! Those hayseeds aren’t any more imaginative than the dimwits who skulk the streets of Millstone. They needed guidance. Someone with vision, someone smart, sophisticated—someone like you—to show them the way.”

  Our legs bumped the hanging love seat.

  “You did it once, Penelope, and you can do it again. Work your magic on Millstone, and we can both make millions.”

  “But I already have a business—”

  “Your aunt’s bookshop? You think too small for someone with the McClure name. You’re lovely and talented and—” He leaned close. “And our relationship doesn’t need to be all business . . .”

  He moved closer, and his hands started groping.

  “Slow down, Philip!”

  As I struggled once again to get free of him, I could feel the cold fury of Jack’s ire. The icy mist around us was building and building—

  Stay calm, Jack. I can handle this guy!

  Detaching myself from Philip’s grip, I stepped backward.

  Meanwhile, over his shoulder, I saw the cold mist blow the love seat backward until the gravity-defying wicker swing nearly bumped the porch roof.

  Before I could stop him, Philip attempted to sit where the seat had been—and tumbled right to the floor.

  “Philip, are you hurt?” I asked.

  “Only my pride,” he said, embarrassed. But not embarrassed enough to restrain his wandering hands as I helped him off the hardwood. In that short time, he managed to cop more feels than a TSA agent.

  When he was on his feet again, he wrapped his arms around my waist, so he could “steady himself.”

  Then he pulle
d me tight against him and put his lips to my ear. “Think about it,” he whispered hotly. “A union of a Hudson and a McClure will make the society columns. We can work side by side, twenty-four seven, our full attention devoted to the restoration of Millstone—”

  “It’s too much to ask, Philip. I have a son to raise—”

  Not to mention an octopus to wrestle!

  “We can send your boy to a top boarding school. This is no place to raise a McClure, anyway. And with the child gone, you’ll feel free with me, free to let loose with cries of tantric joy—”

  Egad, this man is repulsive! I thought, shuddering when his hands moved south faster than Sherman’s army.

  Okay, partner, I’ve had about enough. If you don’t deal with this cluck, I will!

  No, Jack! I’ve got this!

  With a hard shove, I broke free and took two steps backward. “Sorry, Philip,” I said firmly, “but I’m going home.”

  Once again, Philip’s warm facade iced over. His lips curled into a sneer. “Don’t be stupid, Penelope. Think about what I’m offering. A chance to do more than be a shopkeeper at some small-time store. To earn millions instead of thousands.” His eyes had turned cold, his hands balling into fists. “Come with me upstairs. By morning, you’ll see things my way. I won’t take no for an answer—”

  Was this how Emma felt? I wondered. Did he push her to the edge of the balcony—and beyond?

  He began to lunge toward me, and that’s when the ghost released his supernatural grip on that hanging love seat. Down it came, slamming right into Philip Hudson.

  I leaped clear as he stumbled forward. With a girlish squeal, he plunged headfirst into a wicker chair. It promptly flipped over, sending Philip tumbling across the porch like a bowling ball.

  After crashing into a planter, the man lay still.

  “Philip!” I ran up to his limp body. “Are you alive?”

  He moaned.

  Suddenly, the porch lights went on, and Barney Finch appeared at the front door.

  “Tarnation! What’s all the racket?” He reached into his sport jacket and slipped his glasses over his nose. “Is that you, Pen?”

  “Yes, and I’m afraid one of your guests has had too much to drink.”

  Barney’s eyes went wide. “Mr. Hudson! Let me help you up.”

  Stumbling to his feet with Barney’s assistance, a dazed Philip caught my eye, put a “phone hand” to his ear, and mimed the words “call me.” Then he winked.

  “I’ll get Mr. Happy settled in his room,” Barney said. “Use the phone in the parlor to call Sandy at the cab company. She’ll make sure you get home safe.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Irish Tea and No Tales

  Today’s gossip is tomorrow’s headline.

  —Walter Winchell

  EARLY THE NEXT morning, I dragged myself into the kitchen. Collapsing at the table, I rubbed my bleary eyes and wondered how two glasses of sparkling water could give a girl a hangover worthy of New Year’s Eve.

  Sadie, meanwhile—who’d shared an entire bottle of wine with Bud—was humming a happy tune.

  “Good morning, dear!” With eyes bright as the clear September sky, my aunt poured me a steaming cup of Irish tea.

  I groped for the milk, splashed it into my cup, and gulped the strong brew, praying it would revive me.

  “Late night?” she asked. Her smile held the wrong idea.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “That’s all right. You don’t have to kiss and tell.”

  “I promise you, there was no kissing, and there’s nothing to tell.”

  Of course, that wasn’t true. There was plenty to tell . . .

  Philip Gordon Hudson was a sloppy drunk. I had no idea if the man was a murderer, but I wasn’t surprised by his octopus hands. In my experience, which included my late husband, boys who grew up with a great deal of wealth tended to get what they wanted, when they wanted it. If trouble came, rich and powerful relatives often shielded them from the consequences of their actions, to protect their own reputations as much as their kin’s.

  There were pitfalls to this type of upbringing, including extended adolescence, a grown man or woman with a hollow core and disappointingly weak character.

  Whatever made Philip Hudson the man he was, however, did not overly concern me. Last night, I’d simply seen enough to know that, even if he wasn’t guilty of murdering his ex-wife, I didn’t want him in my life, my son’s life—or even the life of the business I shared with my aunt.

  That said, I had to be careful.

  Sadie believed Hudson to be an upstanding man and “promising” prospect to lure me out of single-mom widowhood. If I spilled all my worries and speculations to her over morning tea, Vinny Nardini would likely hear it by lunchtime, and before you could say “megaphone” the entire town would get an earful about Philip Hudson.

  Jack advised me to listen to gossip, not spread it.

  I didn’t disagree. In general, I believed in the law and due process. Societies that embraced slander for solutions ran the risk of looking more like our ancestors of nearby Salem than the enlightened members of Star Trek’s bridge.

  In private, however, I was dying (forgive the pun) to tell my resident spirit everything that I was thinking and feeling, but he was AWOL again. Those supernatural antics at the Finch Inn had sapped his strength. They’d certainly sapped mine. No wonder I had slept like the dead. There wasn’t even a new dream, which was just as well. The one Jack had shared still haunted me.

  That creepy “Continental” con man, Henri Leroi, masked a criminal heart with a slick veneer. The ex-husband in Jack’s case had some things in common with Hudson, a man who hid his own brand of creepiness behind a facade of superficial charm and Newport sophistication.

  What also concerned me about Hudson, in addition to his shaky alibi, was what sounded like a focus on enriching himself without a thought of endangering the citizens of Millstone by letting a “Federal Hill moneyman” gain a foothold in that sleepy community.

  Was my assumption right about the moneyman being shady? Or was there another explanation? Did Philip lie to the police about being in New York on the day of his wife’s death? Or did he lie to me? And was that the extent of his wrongdoing? Or was he a murderer, too?

  “You have a lot on your plate today,” Sadie pointed out as she set a bowl of goodness down in front of me—warm oatmeal, Maine blueberries, and a drizzle of local honey.

  I dug in, thanking her in a grateful garble of chewing. “. . . and you’re right about my plate. It runneth over.”

  I had two truant children to deal with all morning; a busy bookshop to run on an afternoon shift; and a Quibblers meeting this evening.

  Before it all began, however, I had something more to do: absolve myself of this awful feeling that I had key information to catch a killer—one who walked among us. I shivered, and not because the haunting spirit was near. Jack was still flirting with eternal rest.

  Ironic as it was, the ghost didn’t scare me. What fueled my fears was raising a child near anyone who thought he could get away with murder.

  * * *

  * * *

  “SPENCER! AMY!” I called an hour later. “Shut off your game and get ready to go. I’m driving you back to Boston. But first we’re walking over to Cooper Family Bakery.”

  Spencer whooped. “Amy! You’ve got to try their black-and-white donut. They only have them on Mondays and Tuesdays, and they sell out super quick.”

  “I like donuts. Sometimes my au pair makes us beignets.”

  “What’s a ben-yay?”

  “It’s a French donut. The shape is square with a powdered sugar topping. You’d like it.”

  “These donuts are the regular round kind, with holes in the middle, but they are the best for miles around. Everyone says so.” Spencer faced me. “Ca
n I have two?”

  “You can have one now, and maybe one for later, during the drive to Boston. I’m going to get you and Amy back into your seminar.”

  At least I hoped I could; that’s what I’d told Amy’s mother when she interrupted my sleep of the dead.

  It was close to four in the morning when the woman finally returned my call—at least, I think it was. All I know is, outside my window, the Rhode Island sky was still black as a tomb when my mobile phone vibrated . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  THE FORMER MRS. Ridgeway—now the brand-new Mrs. Bergen—was not at all apologetic about calling two days after I’d initially tried to contact her (she and her new husband were detoxing from all devices, she zealously explained). She wasn’t sorry for waking me out of a deathlike sleep (in Sardinia it was a glorious, sunny morning), never mind feeling the least bit of remorse for missing her ex-husband’s funeral.

  Mostly, she was unhappy because her daughter felt it necessary to “jeopardize a golden educational opportunity, to pay respects to a corpse.”

  Her tone chilled me as much as her words, and I felt sorry for Amy, who had to grow up with such an unfeeling parent.

  “Perhaps this is a good thing,” Mrs. Bergen reasoned. “With Kevin gone, Amy will have to get used to the fact that Gustav is now her father.”

  I attempted to convey how broken up Amy was about her biological father’s death.

  “There is no need for you to tell me about my own daughter. I spoke with her last evening on the phone while you were enjoying yourself at dinner. I’ll arrange for therapy when I get back. We can’t have feelings getting in the way of her academic progress, but I really can’t understand why she’s so emotional—unless it’s your son’s influence. In the last year since our divorce, I’ve done my best to keep Kevin’s involvement to a minimum. Except for the trust fund he’s left her, which was a shock, I can tell you, the man was useless . . .”

  I let the woman rattle on and imply the moon. As my dear old dad used to say, Don’t waste good energy trying to convince a donkey it’s a jackass. There was, however, one piece of information worthy of my attention.