by Cleo Coyle
I thought about her day, visiting her dad’s grave, laughing over memories of her father at Spike’s Junkyard Dogs—not unlike a wake—and now relaxing and laughing with a trusted friend.
That seemed like pretty good grief therapy to me.
Still, I hoped to find some time to speak with the girl alone, about her loss.
That very loss—her father’s tragic “accident” by the side of a road, with no car trouble and no witnesses—concerned me for another reason, and I planned to discuss it with Deputy Chief Franzetti when I got back to Quindicott.
As it turned out, I didn’t have to wait that long.
During a bathroom break at a roadside McDonald’s, I found a text from Eddie on my mobile:
Hudson’s alibi solid.
Checked it out myself.
As the kids shared an order of fries (at Amy’s special request) and played digital games on their phones, I stepped outside for privacy and quickly called my friend with the badge.
Eddie confirmed that Philip Hudson was in Providence at the time of his wife’s death. The proof was produced by his lawyer, along with a statement apologizing to Eddie and the Quindicott PD. Hudson claimed his lie about being in New York City was a protective measure.
“My client wishes his business in Providence to remain private,” the lawyer told Eddie. “If you need anything else from Mr. Hudson, you’ll have to request it through me, thank you.”
“And you believe all that?”
“When in doubt, verify,” Eddie said. “So, I called the Providence Hilton, where Philip Hudson supposedly stayed. It’s all confirmed, Pen, including security camera footage. Hudson spent the night and checked out around the time you called the chief to report his ex-wife’s death. He couldn’t have killed her.”
“By now, Eddie, I’m not all that surprised.”
“Why? You seemed so sure.”
“Evidence is mounting against another suspect, as painful as it is for me to admit. I have someone else in mind.”
“Anyone I know?” he asked warily.
“Whitman Brink.”
“Whit? The nice old guy who sells watercolors at flea markets? Pen, please don’t tell me you want me to charge him over a couple of baguettes and a box of cinnamon buns.”
“Hear me out, please? I have good reasons to suspect Brink.”
I told Eddie about my conversation with the man at the cemetery; his familiarity with Emma; and his appointment for dinner that night.
I also informed Eddie that Brink took courses taught by Kevin Ridgeway, who I now suspected was also involved in writing Shades of Leather.
“I think they collaborated on the book. It adds up with Mr. Brink’s newfound wealth—and Professor Ridgeway’s at the very same time. At the cemetery, I saw Mr. Brink’s expensive new car. He told me he’s moving to that luxury gated community on Larchmont. Where did that money come from?”
“Did he say where it came from?”
“A publishing venture.”
“And you believe that venture is cowriting Shades of Leather?”
I quickly reminded Eddie what happened in my bookstore just hours before Emma’s death. “She completely flipped out when she saw Jessica Swindell’s author photo. She claimed it was a photo of herself. Eddie, what if it was? What if her downstairs neighbor, Whitman Brink, fell in love with that sexy vintage photo, thinking it was the perfect way to help sell Jessica Swindell to the public? What if he snatched it when she wasn’t looking?”
Eddie took a breath. “You know what I’m going to ask next, right?”
“Right. How do we prove all this?”
“Exactly.” At the other end of the line, I heard a police radio squawking about a jackknifed trailer on 95. “When you have that figured out, give me a call back.”
CHAPTER 31
Ready, Player Three
We didn’t lose the game; we just ran out of time.
—Vince Lombardi
THE REST OF the drive home, I pondered Eddie’s question. I had no answers. And with no lucky nickel, I had no ghost to help me come up with any.
Back at the bookstore, I followed Spencer and Amy upstairs.
“Wow, look at that!”
As I moved to the bedroom to change into more comfortable shoes, I heard Spencer marveling at something in the living room.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
He pointed at the TV. “My Avenging Angel game. I know I shut it down before we left.”
“He did.” Amy nodded vigorously. “I saw him, Mrs. McClure.”
“But we found it this way—” Spencer pointed in awe.
“So it turned itself on?” I didn’t see the big deal.
“It did more than that!” Amy adjusted her glasses and studied the screen. “Avenging Angel has ten levels. Spencer hasn’t been able to get beyond Level Three. And I barely made Level Five. This game appears to have played itself up to Level Nine!”
Spencer scratched his head. “Do you think Aunt Sadie was playing while we were gone? That must be it. I never knew she liked video games—or she’d be so good at it!”
“Look!” Amy toggled the images on the screen. “There’s another player’s name entered, after Spencer’s and mine.”
Uh-oh, I thought. “What’s the name of the third player?”
“P. Dick,” Spencer read. “Who’s that?!”
“Must be a joke!” I said, my voice reaching dog-whistle pitch. “You know Aunt Sadie. She enjoys those private detective stories! You kids get settled in. I’ll be back shortly.”
Downstairs, I brought Sadie up to date on our truancy situation. Spencer would need to go back to school tomorrow. And Amy would be here with us through Friday.
I’d already rung Amy’s mom to inform her of the seminar’s decision to deny Amy and Spencer’s readmittance. (Miracle of miracles, the woman actually answered her phone when I called.) She was distraught when I explained the situation. But her stress changed to relief when I offered to take care of her daughter until the girl’s au pair returned from France.
“So glad I won’t have to trouble my parents,” the woman said. “They’re busy closing the summer house in Nova Scotia. Amy told me she likes being with you and your son, and Gustav and I won’t be back in the States until the weekend—impossible to change plans, you understand.”
She also informed me that she would now be able to keep in “closer touch” with Amy and me since she and her new husband were leaving the digital detox resort in Sardinia and heading to a private villa they’d rented in Costa Brava. Then she hung up.
I would quickly learn that “keeping in touch” meant texting lists of instructions on Amy’s dietary guidelines and rules of behavior.
I’d no sooner explained as much to Sadie when a new text popped into my phone from Amy’s mother: yet another list of restrictions for her daughter.
On top of no sugar, no gluten, and only organic produce (which she texted me on the drive back from Boston), she now added no video games.
When she sent that first set of rules (the dietary restrictions), I worriedly consulted Amy. The girl sighed with the maturity of a jaded grad student.
“Oh, Mrs. McClure, I’m so sorry you’re being bothered by all that nonsense. I’m not diabetic or gluten intolerant, and I don’t give a fig if my figs are organic! My au pair and I never follow those rules. Honestly, neither does my mother.” She checked her watch and pursed her lips, calculating the time zone difference. “She’s probably sucking down a plate of seafood pasta as I speak—with a giant helping of tiramisu for dessert. It’s her favorite.”
“I see . . .”
My conclusion? For the short time that the precocious Amy Ridgeway was under my supervision—and her mother was self-servingly out of the picture—my rules would be the ones she lived by.
Sadi
e agreed, and I added a decision about how she should spend her time with us.
“I don’t feel comfortable sending Amy to school with Spencer. I don’t know how she’ll get along with the kids or the teachers, and she’s still in a delicate state. I think we should keep an eye on the girl here.”
“Good idea,” Sadie said, and she had an even better one. For the rest of the week, Amy was going to attend “Bookshop School.” “How many kids have the chance to learn how a business like ours works?”
“So we’re going to put her to work?”
“And teach her a thing or two!” Sadie nodded. “That’s how I learned the business from my father.”
Of course! I smiled my agreement. Given Amy’s smarts, I figured she’d be able to run the place solo after a few days, and by Friday our computers were sure to have open-source software upgrades.
Finally, I told Sadie that I needed to run an errand.
“It won’t take long.”
“Go,” she said. “I’ll cover part of your afternoon shift.”
“Oh! One last thing. Don’t fall for the kids’ joke on you.”
“What joke is that?”
“They’re going to pretend you played their Avenging Angel game while we were out. You know kids—they enjoy little pranks.”
“Sounds like a hoot,” Sadie said with a wave. “I’ll play along.”
With a sigh of relief, I headed out to the car. This time, I left the kids and took Jack’s Buffalo nickel.
* * *
* * *
“SO, WHAT DO you think?” I asked the ghost.
I think that fancy kiddie game is too easy. The thugs are all right, but there’s no racetrack or proper gin mills—
“Not the video game! The Emma Hudson case! And what were you thinking playing the kids’ game, anyway?”
Hey, a guy’s gotta do something to occupy his afterlife.
“Well, now you have a murder case to challenge you. So tell me. What’s our next move? How do we prove my theory about Mr. Brink?”
Simple, doll. That’s kid stuff, too. Call back your copper friend. The two of you show up at the old guy’s apartment, all innocent like. You pretend you’re only there to find out more about the dead woman. While the copper distracts the geezer with questions, you look around his place—real casual like—for evidence.
“What evidence exactly?”
Didn’t you tell your Brainiac friend that early copies of that potboiler were hard to come by?
“Jack, you’re a genius! If I see a first printing copy—or better yet multiple copies like Ridgeway had—I can rattle him with questions!”
Now you’re cookin’, doll! Apply some pressure to squeeze out the truth. With the copper’s help and a little luck, the old man will break down and confess.
* * *
* * *
“IT’S WORTH A try,” Eddie said, after I pulled the car over to call him with “my” plan.
“Really?” I said with happy relief. “You’re game?”
“Why not? I talked to the medical examiner’s office earlier today. He’s dragging his heels getting the autopsy report to us. Some kind of complication. So I might as well follow up on any lead I can get. Anyway, if Brink knew Emma that well, maybe he can provide more background for the file.”
“Great. I’ll meet you at the house on Pine Tree Avenue.”
And when you go inside, doll, don’t forget the nickel!
CHAPTER 32
Sally Snoops Among the Shelves
When you get older, keeping the private stuff private seems less important.
—Lawrence Block
“MRS. MCCLURE? OFFICER Franzetti! To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Despite his polite greeting, Whitman Brink appeared anything but happy to find the law at his door. With a tense smile, he pulled at the edges of his open flannel shirt, trying to hide the paint-spattered tee underneath. But the frayed flannel was too tight around his middle to button, so he tugged on his sweatpants in a fruitless attempt to hide the holes in both knees.
Poor old guy, Jack muttered. Looks like he’s one step up from skid row. I’ve seen bums go down that ladder too many times.
Well, pay attention, I told the gumshoe, because Whitman Brink has reversed direction—and he might have killed his upstairs neighbor to keep the gravy train on track.
“May we come in, Mr. Brink?” Eddie asked. “I’d like to speak with you about Emma Hudson.”
Reluctantly, Brink stepped aside.
Yowza! Jack cried. Forget what I said about being one step above skid row. He’s there. Even I’d commit murder to get out of this dump!
“Sorry for the mess,” Brink said. “I’m moving in a few weeks, and the place is in chaos.”
True, there were boxes scattered about. But it was clear from his reddening cheeks the man was more embarrassed by the peeling wallpaper and stained carpeting. Even the furniture looked like it came from the estate of Miss Havisham.
“Let me move those,” Brink said, shifting a stack of watercolor canvases from the couch to a threadbare throw rug.
“Please, sit. Can I get you anything? Coffee, perhaps?”
“Nothing, thanks.” Eddie sank so deep into the sagging couch I feared he’d disappear.
I remained standing. While Eddie distracted Brink by peppering him with questions, I hunted for those first edition copies of Shades of Leather.
It was no easy task. Despite the shabby surroundings, Brink had a fine collection of books. It appeared he spent the bulk of any social security checks on reading matter. Hundreds of hardcovers, in mint condition, packed the shaky shelving in his cluttered living room.
As I scanned the titles, Eddie continued with his questions—
“You were supposed to have dinner with Emma the day she died.”
“That’s right. Emma and a friend.”
“A friend? So, this wasn’t a romantic dinner?”
Brink laughed. “Certainly not. Emma was an interesting woman, but we had little in common. Emma wished to introduce me to her friend because, like me, she was a booklover.”
“But you never met this other woman?”
“I never even found out her name.”
Unplug those ears, doll. The geezer just mentioned a mysterious dame.
I heard, Jack, but I’m more interested in finding proof that Brink is the mysterious dame named Jessica Swindell!
I hit the third wall before I located a copy of Shades of Leather. At last! I quickly pulled the bestseller down and flipped to the copyright page. Holding my breath, I scanned the tiny parade of numbers. When I saw the 6 at the end, my hopes deflated.
This edition wasn’t a first printing; it was a sixth. And the bookmark inside, promoting Professor Leeds’s upcoming appearance at our store, meant Mr. Brink bought it at Buy the Book.
If Brink had free author’s copies sent from the publisher, he wouldn’t have wasted money on purchasing one.
I released a frustrated sigh. So far, the only thing I discovered on this trip was what I already knew: Mr. Brink was a loyal customer.
Meanwhile, Eddie continued his questioning. “Did you ever meet Emma Hudson’s ex-husband?”
“Once, in passing. Philip seemed like a decent chap.”
A decent chap?! Jack boomed. Sure, if you’re partial to a degenerate boozehound and Ollie the Octopus wrapped up in one cuddly ball.
Quiet, Jack, I’m listening.
“Did Mrs. Hudson feel that her ex-husband was a decent chap?”
“She seemed fond of him. But she told me she’d grown impatient with his overindulgence in alcohol and reckless business ventures.”
Eddie made a noise, like a low grunt, and I knew he was considering my warning about Philp Hudson’s possible involvement with the mob.
“Wh
at sort of business ventures did Mr. Hudson pursue? Do you know?”
“Let me see . . .” Mr. Brink stroked his gray goatee. “Emma mentioned he opened a surf shop when they lived in Venice Beach. Then there was a mountain bike rental company. After that he invested in a bungee jumping operation and a water park start-up that never materialized due to California’s drought.”
“Not very lucky, was he?”
Mr. Brink shrugged. “From what Emma told me, these ventures were mostly financed by her money, and every one of them failed. In the end, she grew weary of Philip and suggested, when they moved east, that they go their separate ways . . .”
As Mr. Brink continued answering Eddie’s questions, I froze solid, in complete shock. Housed here on these shaky old bookshelves was a pristine collection dedicated to the yellow-haired, big-glasses icon of my childhood, Sally Snoops and Her Curious Kitty by beloved author Patti Jo Penrod.
Before anyone had heard of Goosebumps, the “spooky, kooky Sally Snoops” completely dominated the children’s book trade.
I started reading the series near the end of its run, as a little girl. I cherished each adventure, and bought or borrowed every one I could lay my hands on. But soon they just disappeared—the first loss of many I would experience as a child.
Even today, the Sally Snoops books were difficult to find. Neither Sadie nor I had ever come across a complete set. Now, here I stood, staring at an entire shelf packed with multiple copies of all seventy-six titles!
Stop gaping at the pretty paper and pay attention! Jack cried.
Okay, okay!
“Your landlord told me you were out painting when Mrs. Hudson died,” Eddie was saying. “Is that correct?”
“Actually, no. I was with a Mr. Clark, over at Stuckley Motors, from about ten in the morning until late afternoon. I took my time at the lot. Over lunch, we discussed financing, but I decided to pay cash.”
Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Cash? For a used car?”
“Cash for a brand-new car. I’ve come into some money, you see.”