The Ghost and the Bogus Bestseller

by Cleo Coyle

  “From what, may I ask?”

  Brink stiffened, his tone turning indignant. “I’m sorry, Officer, but I don’t see how my finances are pertinent to your investigation. I’m happy to help you with what I know about Emma Hudson and her life, but the business of my own is none of yours.”

  Hey, dollface, Jack snapped. You payin’ attention? Mr. Brink is on the brink of tossing the copper out. You better step up your dance before this melody ends.

  Jack was right. I saw no other copies of Shades of Leather, not in this room, anyway. I would have to think fast, find a way to lead the man back to a friendlier frame of mind. Remembering our chat at the cemetery, I pointed to the Sally Snoops books.

  “Excuse me for interrupting, Mr. Brink, but may I ask you about this wonderful collection?”

  Still frowning, Mr. Brink dragged his angry blue gaze away from Eddie. “What do you wish to know?”

  “Did these Sally Snoops books belong to your daughter?”

  At the mention of his lost child, Mr. Brink’s harsh expression softened. “In a way, Mrs. McClure, I wrote them to entertain my daughter during her long illness.”

  “You mean you read them to entertain her.”

  “No. I wrote them.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Ghostwriter

  An idea, like a ghost, must be spoken to a little before it will explain itself.

  —Charles Dickens

  I WAS CERTAIN I’d misheard the man. Either that or my elderly customer was delusional. So I tried again—

  “Mr. Brink, surely you’re not telling me that you are the author of Sally Snoops and Her Curious Kitty?”

  “All seventy-six titles, Mrs. McClure, plus two that were never published.”

  “I always thought a woman wrote them.”

  “Of course you did. Everyone did. That was by design.”

  “You mean there isn’t a real Patti Jo Penrod?” The man really must be delusional, I told Jack. I know very well there was!

  “Miss Penrod was an elderly secretary at my series’ publishing house. She posed as the author for personal appearances. I allowed that ruse because the royalties were high. And my daughter required almost constant care, so there was no way I could write the books and promote them, too.”

  As he spoke, he rose to retrieve two items, a framed photo and a polished wooden plaque. The frame held a picture of Mr. Brink in a tux, sitting beside Miss Penrod at a formal ceremony. The plaque was a children’s book award for one of my favorite Sally Snoops adventures: The Disappearing Dinosaur Bones.

  “I’m very proud of this award. I consulted with paleontologist Bob Bakker to get the details right. Good man. He advised the artist, too.”

  Finally, I believed him.

  Mr. Whitman Brink, one of my most unassuming customers, was the beloved creator of one of my favorite story characters from childhood. Jack, I wish you were more than a ghost, so you could pick me up off the floor!

  With almost little-girl excitement, I clapped my hands. “Mr. Brink, I have to tell you how much I enjoyed the books you wrote. Sally was like a best friend to me. I absolutely loved her!”

  “You and a million other little girls. But there was only one fan I cared about.”

  “Your daughter.”

  With a forlorn smile, he nodded. “Lilly was sick for five years. During that time, I wrote one novel every two months—cancer is expensive, you see, and I needed money. But she was enchanted by the stories, and that drove me, too. My Lilly was the first person to read every adventure, and she lived to see thirty of the Sally Snoops books published. After she was gone, I kept the series going in her honor. I suppose it was my way of coping with the loss.” Mr. Brink paused and swallowed. “The books kept her alive for me a little longer . . .”

  Seeing the pain in his expression, I offered my condolences. So did Eddie. “I’m a father, too, sir. I can’t imagine going through what you did.”

  After a respectful pause, I couldn’t help asking, “Why did you ever stop writing the books? Was the series canceled?”

  Whitman Brink harrumphed. “It was never canceled, Mrs. McClure. The books were selling, but the publisher was poorly managed, and the company went bankrupt.”

  “You didn’t try to publish the series elsewhere?”

  “I had too many other problems. My wife’s grief overwhelmed her. She began to drink and abuse her medications. I tried my best to save her, but she eventually perished from a fatal combination of barbiturates and whiskey.”

  Exhaling heavily, the big man’s shoulders sank.

  “The sad truth is I didn’t have the rights to those books, or even the character I created. I was desperate for funds and signed a very bad contract. After the company went under, the rights were tied up with the bankruptcy. No one could legally publish Sally Snoops for decades, not until now.”

  “That’s your publishing venture?”

  I closed my eyes with relief. When I opened them again, I exchanged glances with Eddie. He simply shrugged.

  “It took me twenty-five years, but now the rights to all the Sally Snoops belong to me. Academy Books, the big children’s publisher, is reprinting the originals, along with the two unpublished works, and I’m writing new adventures starting next year.”

  Cri-ma-nee! Jack groused. This burg is full of scribblers. How is it you can’t finger the right one?

  Me? What about you? I challenged. You’re the professional!

  Try to remember that the next time you want to leave me at home playing kiddie games. You better make sure I tag along from now on, Penny, or you’re liable to forget your own name.

  “As I said before, Mrs. McClure, I’m far from the new Tom Clancy, but at my age I take literary fame where I find it.” Brink put his index finger to his lips. “Please. Tell no one. Academy plans an official announcement very soon, and I don’t wish to steal their thunder. That’s why I was so reticent to speak about it at the cemetery.”

  There was an irony here that Jack appreciated. I arrived suspecting Whitman Brink of murder. Now I was offering the man my sincere congratulations, and gushing about his work like a complete fangirl.

  Serves you right for suspecting this dignified old gent.

  Really, Jack, now he’s a “gent”? That’s a far cry from your “geezer” ready for “skid row.”

  That’s because I no longer suspect the man of tossing a dame off a balcony.

  Well, I couldn’t be happier to be wrong. Though now I’m out of suspects.

  Jack laughed. People are no good. You’ll never run out of suspects.

  Before I said good-bye to Mr. Brink, I made a point of inviting him to appear at Buy the Book for a special talk and signing, whenever his new Sally Snoops books became available.

  “Really, Mrs. McClure? You think people around here will show up to hear me speak—and sign kiddie books?”

  “I absolutely do!”

  “You know, I attend all your author events . . .” Emotion entered Mr. Brink’s deep voice, and his bright blue eyes began to glisten. “For a time, your bookshop was about the only thing keeping this lonely old man from sitting at home and staring at walls.”

  “Sadie and I always appreciate seeing you at our store. And we’d be honored to host your appearance.”

  “Goodness, Mrs. McClure, you overwhelm me . . .” Pausing to look away, he deftly swiped a tear. “I assure you, the honor will be mine.”

  * * *

  * * *

  OUTSIDE AGAIN, IN the brisk, fresh air, I said good-bye to Officer Franzetti, apologizing the whole time.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Eddie said, before driving off. “That’s police work, lots of dead ends—and, hey, I did get some good background for the file.”

  I was about to start my own car when my phone vibrated. I tensed, fearing it was another text from Amy�
��s mother, who managed to be both an absentee and a helicopter parent.

  With relief, I saw this message was from Seymour Tarnish.

  Congrats, Pen U were correct!

  The author of Shades of Leather is a local, and I know who. Someone we both know.

  For once I was ahead of Seymour—no mean feat, considering our postman was locally famous for being a past champion on Jeopardy!

  Though Mr. Brink turned out to be a “dead end,” as Eddie put it, the evidence still held up for Professor Ridgeway’s involvement, given the first editions of Shades in his possession and the text message he’d sent to his daughter before his death. I only hoped Seymour found a way to prove it.

  With a feeling of reassurance about this new development—and a literary one, at that—I headed back to my bookshop.

  CHAPTER 34

  Call to Order

  Big Brother is watching . . . look busy.

  —Brandon Boyd

  THAT EVENING, BUD Napp banged the ball-peen hammer he used as a gavel, calling to order the official meeting of the Quindicott Business Owners Association.

  I always thought of Bud as an even-tempered man, but tonight the lanky hardware store owner slammed the tool with enough force to threaten the collapse of the folding table Sadie had set up for the officers.

  Beside him at the shaky dais, Fiona Finch primly stood and began reading the minutes of our last meeting. She didn’t get far before Bud cut her off—

  “Our first and only order of business is that confounded Big Brother security system that’s bleeding us dry!”

  Loud applause filled our Community Events space. Tonight’s meeting was packed, much larger than our usual gathering. But the situation was dire, the stakes high. Bud himself characterized tonight’s assembly as “a first step in the liberation of the town’s business community from regulatory oppression!”

  Of course, we were all aware that Bud was politicking—part of his campaign to unseat Councilwoman Marjorie Binder-Smith—and he’d certainly chosen a popular cause.

  Since the installation of the sidewalk security system, most of the merchants on Cranberry Street had been fined, for one infraction or another. Now the business owners took turns rising to voice complaints against Usher Security, the city council, and the local police.

  In the middle of Dan Donovan’s tale of a broken bottle that led to a costly citation for “a hazardous sidewalk condition,” my ghost blew up.

  Mother Machree! When are these clodhoppers going to stop jawboning around the cracker barrel? We need to address the serious business of murder!

  The entire roomed shivered with Jack’s frigid blast.

  “Sadie, can you please turn up the heat?” someone called.

  “It’s a drafty room, and that’s that,” she shot back.

  Bud winked at his girl. “We’re New Englanders! We can take it!”

  I gritted my teeth—to keep them from chattering. Jack, will you please turn down the deep freeze? My lips are turning blue.

  Your pretty lips are the only reason I’m sticking around.

  There’s more reason than that, and you know it. I already told you, after this big meeting is over, a smaller group is staying behind to discuss the death of Emma Hudson . . .

  Before the meeting, I’d sent out texts to the core Quibblers and asked them to stay late for a short session of literary detection. When I mentioned the subject was Shades of Leather, most responded with unprecedented enthusiasm. And Seymour was thrilled to learn he’d have a sizable audience for what he felt was a huge announcement.

  Okay, the ghost grumbled. But if I have to listen to these unwashed rubes and chawbacons much longer, I’m scaring this bunch out of this joint and onto Cornpone Street—

  “That’s enough!” I said—out loud. Whoops.

  Linda Cooper-Logan glanced at me strangely. Sheepishly, I displayed my smartphone as if I’d been using it, shook my head, and mouthed the word “kids.”

  She nodded knowingly.

  Thirty minutes later, J. Brainert Parker arrived. Fresh from his Faculty Affairs Committee meeting, he was dressed in his usual preppy finery. Just as I’d noticed on Saturday, his tasteful, tailored clothes were hanging off his waning physique—and my worries about my old friend surfaced again.

  From his spot many seats away, Seymour noticed the professor’s arrival, but he didn’t appear worried. The expression on his grinning face was pure excitement. He even shot me a double thumbs-up.

  You still there, Jack? I asked, checking my watch a short time later.

  Am I still awake—that’s the question!

  You better be. This business talk is almost over.

  Good, said the ghost. Then we can get down to the business of solving a murder.

  CHAPTER 35

  Undercover Hostess

  I’m not very good at eavesdropping . . .

  —The claim of a witness in I, the Jury by Mickey Spillane

  BY NINE P.M., the official Quindicott Business Owners Association meeting had broken up, and our unofficial Quibblers roundtable formed.

  With another sharp bang of his hardware store hammer, Bud called our post-meeting meeting to order.

  More than a dozen members of the larger group had remained behind, pulling up chairs for our literary investigation, including a few whose interest surprised me.

  I stood and faced the circle of chairs.

  “Some of you may have heard the news—or read a version of it in Elmer’s paper—but there was a death on Pine Tree Avenue last Saturday. I’ll tell you right now that Elmer got almost every fact wrong. Emma Hudson did not fall from a broken balcony, due to hoarding. The police believe her death was a suicide. But I think it could be murder.”

  The word murder got everyone’s attention—everyone, that is, except burly, shaggy-haired Leo Rollins, no-nonsense owner of Rollins Electronics and a decorated veteran of the Iraq War.

  “Hey, what gives? I thought this discussion was going to be about that steamy new bestseller Shades of Leather, not the Pine Tree Avenue version of Sally Snoops and Her Curious Kitty.”

  “What’s wrong with Sally Snoops?” Linda Cooper-Logan demanded. “I loved those books.”

  “Yeah. When you were nine,” Leo said. “I heard Shades of Leather is a real adult book. That’s why I stuck around.”

  Linda blinked. “You haven’t read it?”

  Leo put his thick arms behind his head, thrust out his dark blond beard, and sat back in his chair. “I’m waiting for you folks to tell me all about it.”

  “Then you’ll be glad to know this discussion is indeed about Shades of Leather,” I informed Leo, “because Emma Hudson’s death is connected to that book.”

  Milner Logan looked skeptical. “Now how can that be, Pen?”

  “That’s why I asked you all here, to help figure it out.”

  Once again, I shared Emma’s story, from the moment she entered my bookshop until she died hours later. I told everyone about her chatty parrot, the vanished copy of Shades of Leather, and the missing Yorkie.

  Leo shook his shaggy head. “I knew it. Sally Snoops.”

  Ignoring Leo, Fiona Finch’s hand shot into the air—just as I hoped it would. Jack said to use gossip to open doors and reveal secrets, and no one was a better conduit of town gossip than the owner of the Finch Inn and its gourmet restaurant. As she rose to speak, Fiona twisted her flamboyant peacock brooch with nervous excitement.

  “I heard about Mrs. Hudson the night before the story hit the papers!”

  Aunt Sadie spoke up. “Joyce Cummins told you, didn’t she? Chief Ciders’ secretary must have you on speed dial!”

  Fiona frowned. “Since they installed the security system, poor Joyce is doing double duty. She’s been too busy to chat.”

  “Yeah, too busy spying on the rest of us,” gr
iped Leo Rollins.

  “When did you find out about this dead woman?” Bud asked.

  “On Saturday night, around seven o’clock. The first wave of weekend diners was just arriving when two men from the state police crime scene unit and a gentleman from the medical examiner’s office arrived at Chez Finch, without reservations, of course. Fortunately, I was able to seat them at a table near my hostess station.”

  “Yeah,” a smirking Seymour cracked. “That’s the one with the microphone. All the other tables at Chez Finch have numbers, but that one’s called the Watergate!”

  Fiona scowled.

  “How did you know who they were?” Bud pressed. “They weren’t in lab coats or anything, were they?”

  “I’m telling you, she bugged their table!” Seymour insisted. “When it comes to surveillance, the Finch-ster could teach the CIA a thing or two!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Fiona lifted her chin indignantly. “The reason I know is because the man from the medical examiner’s office used his departmental credit card to pay for the dinner.”

  “Oh, wonderful!” Seymour threw up his hands. “A government bureaucrat running wild with an expense account. But I’m sure they were careful, right? Just a quick dinner—with an aperitif. Lillet is nice, but oh, so pricey on your menu. Then there’s that bottle of French wine to help choke down all those heavy sauces, followed by dessert and brandy, which goes down so much nicer when you know you’re getting behind the wheel of an official government vehicle, instead of your own.”

  Fiona planted her hands on her hips. “What’s your point, mailman?”

  “I work for the government, too. Where the heck is my expense account?”

  Brainert rolled his eyes. “For what? Dr. Scholl’s foot powder?”

  “Enough!” Bud cried. “Tell us what you heard, Fiona.”

  “Well, first they complained about being called in to work on a weekend. I heard the ME remark that Chief Ciders wasn’t completely convinced the woman killed herself, though it looked that way.”