The Ghost and the Bogus Bestseller

by Cleo Coyle

  What do you know, Jack? Maybe I got through to the old grouch.

  Chief Clown-around acts like a real cop? Will wonders never cease?

  “Later, during the main course, the men from the crime scene unit were in a lather over fingerprints.”

  That caught my interest. “They didn’t get enough?”

  “They collected too many, and from more than one individual. There were two sets, at least. And they found multiple sets in every room. Far too many prints for a casual visitor to leave. When I served their after-dinner drinks—”

  “I knew it!” Seymour cried.

  “—they wondered if Mrs. Hudson had a houseguest or roommate.”

  Or a dame-hungry honey-dipper, Jack quipped.

  “How about the dog?” I asked. “Did they mention the dog?”

  “Not once. I would have heard.”

  “Because you bugged their table,” Seymour insisted.

  I’m starting to wonder if those extra mitt prints belong to Phil the Masher, Jack said. He and Emma wouldn’t be the first ex-married couple to reignite the old torch between two hot-sheets.

  Could be, Jack. Philip seemed awfully enthusiastic about that whole tantric sex thing. Then again, Mr. Brink mentioned that Emma had a book-loving friend. He was supposed to meet her over dinner on the day Emma died.

  “So,” I spoke up, “we have a dead woman with a mysterious friend or roommate—”

  Or a randy ex-husband with hot pants.

  “—who vanished, just like the stolen copy of Shades of Leather, and Emma’s dog.”

  Okay, Perry Mason. You’ve got the judge and jury all googly-eyed. Time to call your first witness.

  Not yet, Jack. There’s something else we have to cover before we bring on Seymour.

  I opened a box in the corner and passed out copies of the eighth printing of Shades of Leather, delivered from the publisher yesterday.

  “It was the author photograph on the back of the book that set Emma off,” I said. “So, let’s take a closer look at that picture.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Every Picture Tells a Story

  A photograph is usually looked at—seldom looked into.

  —Ansel Adams

  WE ALL STUDIED the photo of the lovely young woman with dark hair, a coyly cocked head, and a come-hither expression that appeared as if she couldn’t decide whether to look innocently lascivious, or lasciviously innocent.

  She appeared to have light-colored eyes under a veil of dark hair, though we all agreed there was no way to be sure, because the photoshopped image had been artfully drained of strong hues, rendering everything in a muted sepia tone.

  “This is supposed to look like a vintage photo, but I don’t know if it really is one,” Leo Rollins said. “It’s hip to put filters on photos or selfies. That kind of software is built into some phone apps.”

  “But what if it really is an old photo?” Seymour countered. “I mean, huge Margaret Keane eyes like that haven’t been fashionable since the 1970s.”

  The woman in the photo wore nothing more than an opaque bedsheet and false eyelashes. Her full lips were painted to form a heart, and the eyebrows had been shaped to complete the wide-eyed “baby doll” look working overtime to convey both naiveté and sensuality.

  “No,” Fiona said after donning her reading glasses. “This is a vintage photograph. I see enough old magazines at flea markets to know. This looks like something out of a late-1960s issue of Cosmopolitan.”

  “It could have been made to give that impression,” Linda pointed out.

  I looked to Brainert for a comment, but he remained silent, arms folded, angular features locked in a grim expression.

  Something was wrong here. This wasn’t like Brainert. He always enjoyed giving his opinion, especially when it involved a mystery.

  “Let’s focus on the eyes,” I suggested, trying to stay positive and keep the discussion going. “Camille Paglia once wrote that it doesn’t matter whether a Hollywood movie is set in the past, the present, or even the future; you can usually pinpoint the decade it was filmed in by the women’s eye makeup. I’m sure the same rule applies to photography.”

  “This girl’s look is very Twiggy,” Aunt Sadie said.

  Joyce Koh, the teenage daughter of the Korean American man who owned Koh’s market, made a face. “She’s scrawny, but I wouldn’t call her a twig, Ms. Thornton.”

  Sadie laughed. “No, no, dear. You’re too young to remember. Twiggy was a person. A fashion model from the 1960s who was famously thin.”

  “You’re right, Ms. Thornton, before my time!”

  “Mine, too, thank you very much,” Linda said. “But Milner and I did enjoy binge-watching Mad Men. It reminded us how cool those times were: the fight for civil rights, the British Invasion, Woodstock, free love—”

  Free love? Jack snorted. That’s a giggle. Love never comes free. There’s always a cost.

  “It was an ugly time, too,” Bud said. “And I’m speaking from experience, not a television show. We had the draft. The war in Vietnam. The assassinations of JFK, Martin Luther King, Bobby Kennedy.”

  “That’s right.” Sadie nodded. “There were riots, drugs everywhere, those Manson murders, chaos on college campuses—”

  Best of times, worst of times? Jack quipped. I think I’ve heard that one before. I mean, the start of the Great Depression wasn’t so bad when you consider Gallant Fox winning the Triple Crown. Then there was the end of Prohibition, a real cackle—the rise of the Nazi Party, not so much.

  “Let’s get back to the picture, shall we?” I said, pointing out that there was one more visual clue in the portrait—the odd diamond-shaped window that backlit the subject. I pulled up another photo and sent it to everyone.

  “I found this Polaroid in Emma Hudson’s apartment. It is so blurry I can’t make out the woman’s face, but that distinctive window behind her suggests it was taken in the same spot as that author photo. What do you all think?”

  “Seems the same to me,” Linda said, and Milner nodded.

  Fiona loudly cleared her throat. “I probably have the most experience here with architectural integrity. You all know, Barney and I meticulously researched authentic high Victorian colors for our inn—”

  “Of course we all know,” Seymour muttered. “You’ve told us a thousand times.”

  “In my expert opinion, Penelope, it is the same window!”

  “What about this date written on the back?” Bud asked. “Does that mean anything?”

  “Excellent question!” Seymour stuck his nose in his phone. A moment later he looked up with a grave expression. “On that date in history, the Weather Underground detonated a bomb at the Pentagon in protest of the Vietnam War.”

  There you go! Jack cracked again. Best of times, worst of times!

  I gritted my teeth and took a breath. “I think we can dismiss the Weather Underground from this investigation. What I do know is that this Polaroid is a real vintage picture, and it was in Mrs. Hudson’s possession.”

  Milner scratched his head. “I seem to recall Richard Avedon said his photographic portraits were more about him than they were about his subject. Maybe we should consider what the photographer was trying to say about himself through the author portrait. What was he trying to portray?”

  Linda frowned at her husband. “Who said the shutterbug was a man?”

  “She’s right,” Seymour said. “In my opinion, Bunny Yeager was the greatest glamour photographer of all time.”

  Suddenly, Fiona cried out. “I’ve got it!”

  “What?” I leaned forward. “Do you see a breakthrough clue on the photo?”

  “It’s obvious, Pen!” She pointed to my copy of Shades. “There is always a photo credit on the back cover flap of hardcover books, right under the book designer’s credit. Contact the photo
grapher—whether it’s a him or her—and you’ll have your answers!”

  Seymour rolled his eyes. “Oh, for the love of—”

  “Excuse me, Tarnish,” Fiona huffed. “You have a problem with my idea?”

  “Not the idea. The photo credit. Look for yourself.”

  Seymour passed Fiona his copy of the book. She eagerly flipped to the back flap and frowned. I didn’t need to look; I already knew.

  “What’s it say?” Bud asked.

  “Dead End, that’s what.”

  “The postman’s right.” Fiona sighed. Then, as primly as she read our weekly minutes, she shared the words aloud: “Photo by Jessica Swindell.”

  That news seemed to deflate the room.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “Let’s forget about the photo and focus on the text. Seymour? If you please . . .”

  CHAPTER 37

  A Flap Over Copy

  A good love story always keeps the pot boiling.

  —James Patterson

  SEYMOUR TARNISH ROSE and faced the group. He’d set his phone aside for a copy of Shades of Leather, plumed with multi-colored Post-it notes.

  “Pen asked me to give this book a close read with an eye for unmasking the identity of its author. Could it be someone local? Did this person have ties to Emma Hudson—perhaps use an old photo without her permission? These are the questions I kept in mind as I turned page after page after page after—”

  “Get on with it!” Bud griped.

  You tell him, Gramps! Jack cheered in my head.

  “So, you might ask, what is this book about?” Seymour opened to the flap copy. “Minus the publishing hyperbole—okay, maybe a little publishing hyperbole—Shades of Leather is the story of lovely and innocent Justine, who sells high-end furniture to a rich clientele in an exclusive Manhattan shop.

  “Enter a handsome, mysterious, and wealthy customer seeking an Italian leather couch. The charismatic Lyon Cage quickly ensnares young Justine in his quest for, and I quote, ‘perfect leather and much, much more!’

  “The enigmatic Mr. Cage purchases one leather couch after another, seducing Justine on each one in new and kinky ways. When each lovemaking session ends, Lyon has that couch hauled away. And Justine is called upon to provide a new one.”

  This all sounds very . . . uplifting, Jack said with a laugh.

  “The final paragraph of the flap copy reads, ‘During Justine’s erotic journey, she is drawn into a mysterious underworld of crime and corruption. She witnesses puzzling events, encounters sinister and dangerous people, and uncovers a deadly secret that changes her world forever.’”

  “Sounds like your standard pulp potboiler,” Bud Napp remarked.

  “Think so?” Seymour pulled one of the Post-its loose. “Here is what one reviewer had to say, and I quote: ‘This novel is chock-full of highly charged eroticism and violence worthy of the Marquis de Sade.’”

  “See, they hated it,” Bud declared.

  “Nope, they loved it. This is a starred review!”

  Bud shook his head. “I guess I missed that course in school on appreciation of erotic violence.”

  “So,” Seymour said, dropping the book (all six hundred pages of it) on an empty seat with an echoing thud, “who here has actually read Shades of Leather?”

  There was a little bit of nervous tittering, and Brainert shifted uncomfortably. Finally, Dan Donavon raised his pink, pudgy hand.

  “My wife read me the racy stuff. But I think she was just angling for a new couch.”

  “I read it,” Fiona said. “A young couple stayed at my inn two weeks back. They left behind a well-used copy, and a couch with broken springs. Naturally, I was curious.”

  “Naturally,” Seymour echoed and shot me a glance. “I hope old Barney’s holding up better than that couch.”

  “I heard that,” Fiona sniffed. “I’m sorry I mentioned it!”

  “Aw, don’t be,” Milner Logan told her with a wink. “Linda read it, and it gave her some great ideas. I didn’t read it myself, you understand, but watching Sports Night on the couch is a whole lot more fun—ouch!”

  Linda not so gently elbowed her husband into silence.

  “I read one of the couch scenes to Bud,” Sadie said with a sly smile. “He was so rattled he needed a second beer.”

  Ann Schram, the soft-spoken owner of the town’s new flower shop, actually spoke up. “I didn’t read it, but I will now.”

  I knew Joyce Koh had read it—she bought her copy at my store. But I understood her reluctance to mention it in front of her conservative father.

  “We know Leo Rollins didn’t read it,” Seymour said. “Though it looks like he’s reading it now.”

  “Huh? Were you talking to me?” Leo asked, tearing his eyes away from the open book.

  “Of course, Shades of Leather isn’t that original,” Seymour said. “It’s basically just a retelling of the French fairy tale ‘Bluebeard.’”

  “There are other versions of this story?” Linda asked.

  “Why? You want to read those, too? I don’t think our old couch can take it.” Milner’s offer was answered by another jab to the ribs.

  “There’s a German version by the Brothers Grimm,” Seymour supplied. “It’s called ‘The Robber Bridegroom.’”

  “That’s also the title of a Eudora Welty story,” Brainert finally offered, his academic instincts overriding his obvious reluctance to speak on this subject. “Welty’s story is loosely based on Grimm, but it’s set in Mississippi.” The professor smiled for the first time that evening, satisfied he’d one-upped his frenemy. “I just thought since Shades of Leather is a novel, I would expect a novelistic inspiration—not an obscure fairy tale.”

  Joyce Koh spoke up. “I’m sorry, but I don’t get how Shades of Leather is like a fairy tale. Can someone explain?”

  “Sure, I will!” Seymour said, beating Brainert to the literary lecture. “You see, in ‘Bluebeard’ there’s a magical key and a secret underground chamber filled with dead brides, whereas in Shades there’s a secret combination to a Stanley padlock and a backyard burial ground packed with burned-out couches.”

  Leo Rollins looked up from the book and stroked his beard. “So, this woman rewrote a fairy tale to make it dirty? ’Cause it’s real dirty.”

  Seymour ahemmed. “I prefer the term erotic, or perhaps suggestive—except the writing actually describes what it suggests.”

  “I’ll say.” With that, Leo returned to the book.

  “There’s a little more to Shades than trashy salaciousness,” Seymour continued. “There are subplots and side stories involving shady characters and weird events.”

  “You mean the boring plotty parts,” Linda said.

  “For instance, there’s a cabal of international arms dealers and drug traffickers planning a coup in some unnamed Central American country. They throw elaborate Manhattan parties that attract young women like the heroine Justine. There’s a jealous suitor who murders his romantic rival before Justine’s eyes; not to mention a corrupt politician doing business over the phone with the New England mob while he’s literally in bed with the heroine. I won’t name names, but that mob character sounds an awful lot like a real-life, now-deceased Mafia don from the 1970s. And, of course, there’s Lyon Cage, the enigmatic, couch-seducing Bluebeard of the story.”

  “But all that stuff is kind of dull compared to the main story,” Fiona said.

  Seymour smirked. “Kind of dull compared to the kinky stuff, you mean?”

  “Those sections do seem forced,” Sadie agreed. “Almost as if they were part of a different novel. Some moralistic fable about old money, international crime, and political corruption.”

  “Harold Robbins meets Fear of Flying, right? Well, that is my point, which I’ll get to in a moment.” Seymour paused. “Does anyone remember a novel called Nake
d Came the Stranger?”

  Only a grinning Sadie raised her hand.

  CHAPTER 38

  The Write Stuff

  It ain’t whatcha write, it’s the way atcha write it.

  —Jack Kerouac

  “NAKED CAME THE Stranger? I’d like to read that book!” Joyce Koh cried, ignoring her father’s disapproving scowl.

  “Not to worry, Mr. Koh,” Seymour responded. “Joyce’s sentiments would have been right in line with much of the general public at the time. As literary hoaxes go, Naked Came the Stranger was bigger than Clifford Irving’s faux biography of Howard Hughes, because Naked was actually published. It even spent thirteen weeks on the New York Times bestseller list before the truth was exposed.”

  Leo Rollins was impressed. “Who was the genius who wrote it?”

  “The name on the cover was Penelope Ashe, and that cover was pretty scandalous for 1969. More Playboy than Publisher’s Row.”

  “Sounds better and better,” Joyce Koh gushed.

  “Naked tells the tale of a married couple who host a chat show on New York radio. When the wife finds out her husband is having an affair, she goes wild. I mean she turns into a total cougar in heat!”

  Fiona groaned. “Must you be so vulgar, Seymour?”

  “Descriptive, Fiona. I’m being descriptive. Anyway, the jealous wife steps out with a bunch of guys, including a handyman and a mobbed-up crooner who sounds awfully familiar to Rat Pack fans.”

  Milner shrugged. “And we care because?”

  “Because Naked Came the Stranger has the same sort of sexy vignettes as Shades of Leather, except there aren’t any”—Seymour made air quotes—“boring parts. You know—subtext, character development, thematic elements—niggling nonsense like that.”

  Fiona harrumphed. “Someone must have liked the book if it was on the New York Times bestseller list.”

  “Right alongside novels considered classics.” Seymour ticked off each title with his fingers: “Mario Puzo’s The Godfather, The Andromeda Strain by Michael Crichton, Portnoy’s Complaint by Philip Roth, Chaim Potok’s The Promise—”