by Cleo Coyle
“We get it, Seymour.” Linda ran her hand through her short platinum hair. “Who is this author again?”
“Penelope Ashe. She made her first public appearance on The David Frost Show in 1969. Following an introduction by Frost, the curtain parted and two dozen staffers from the Long Island Newsday walked onto the stage.”
“There’s no Penelope Ashe?” Joyce said, disappointed.
“The author was portrayed by the sister-in-law of one of the writers for meetings with the publisher, but the story was written in round-robin fashion by a bunch of Newsday reporters led by a guy named Mike McGrady. They went on Frost’s show to confess that the hottest read of the year was an elaborate practical joke.”
“Why go to all that trouble?” Joyce asked.
“Because they made lots of money, silly girl,” her father barked.
“They did,” Seymour agreed. “But they had another motive, too. The hoaxers were determined to write the most steamy and mindless book possible, and make it a rousing success. They were out to prove that America’s literary taste was in the toilet.”
“How did they make it a rousing success?” I asked.
Seymour shrugged. “They worked in media. Maybe they used the tricks dreamed up by talk show host Jean Shepherd for his 1950s literary hoax, I, Libertine.”
Hah, it figures at least one of my lowlife relatives would turn to larceny, the ghost cracked.
Jean Shepherd—not Shepard, I clarified for the ghost. Coincidence, yes, but you’re not related.
Brainert tapped his chin. “Didn’t Shepherd urge his radio listeners to go to bookstores and ask for his phony book?”
Sadie spoke up. “As I recall, the 1950s bestseller lists were compiled not only by sales, but also by the number of requests bookstores received for a certain title.”
“That’s right.” Seymour nodded. “And so many people asked for I, Libertine that the New York Times listed it as a bestseller. It was deemed so salacious that it was banned in Boston—a hoot because it had yet to be written! Science fiction author Theodore Sturgeon was hired to churn it out, which he did in one marathon typing session.”
“And so the first literary practical joke since Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Balloon-Hoax’ was born,” Brainert noted.
“There were others,” Seymour countered. “Coffee, Tea or Me?—the 1967 bestseller supposedly penned by two randy airline stewardesses—was really written by a PR man for American Airlines.”
“And Seymour already mentioned Clifford Irving,” Sadie reminded them. “He actually went to prison for peddling that fake biography of Howard Hughes.”
“So, are you saying Shades of Leather is nothing but a practical joke?” Fiona asked.
“No, Fiona,” Seymour replied. “What I am saying is that Shades of Leather appears to be a group collaboration, just like Naked Came the Stranger.”
“How could you possibly deduce that?” Bud asked.
“You don’t have to be a literary genius to spot the differences in style and vocabulary. From the erotic scenes I get a real Erica Jong or Story of O vibe—”
Seymour opened Shades of Leather to a bookmarked page.
“In most of the book, Justine, the tender-aged heroine, talks like a Valley girl on stupid pills. No kidding, one step above barks, chirps, and grunts. But on page 386, her diction inexplicably improves.”
“‘Unbeknownst to Lyon,’” Seymour read, “‘I had acquired the first two numbers of the lock’s combination. But what machinations would be required of me to gain those final digits?’”
Seymour pulled his nose out of the book.
“Beside the fact that this dialogue reeks of something out of a Wilkie Collins Victorian thriller, I question the use of words like unbeknownst and machinations by a character who, six pages earlier, refers to Almas caviar as ‘kind of squishy.’”
“They are perfectly good English verbs that should be part of any high school graduate’s vocabulary,” Brainert insisted, almost defensively.
“Allow me to continue,” Seymour sniffed. “The Victorian-era dialogue I just read simply does not compare to the lively, bawdy banter in the sex scenes. And neither resembled the didactic discussions about narcotics trafficking and post–Cold War tensions the diplomat character intermittently tortures Justine—and the reader—with.”
“What are you saying?” Brainert demanded.
“My analysis is clear,” Seymour replied. “Shades of Leather appears to be written by three different and distinct authors.” He ticked off each with his fingers. “A woman of wit and humor, with a talent for the bawdy. An academic with a discipline in international affairs. And a stuffy, humorless professor of American literature whose ability to write compelling fiction has been marred by the stultifying influence of academic writing.”
Brainert Parker jumped to his feet.
“You base this cockamamy theory on a character’s use of vocabulary? That’s a flawed assessment, Seymour. Salient House has editors. I’m sure they have college degrees and use polysyllabic words—unlike those pulp hacks you read.”
“You, of all people, should know that much of ‘classic’ literature started out as popular entertainment!” Seymour shot back. “Shakespeare, Dumas, Dickens, Mark Twain, H. G. Wells—they wrote for the masses. It was you and your fussy academic colleagues who turned a vital art into a pompous, esoteric snooze-fest.”
“That’s not the point!” Brainert yelled. “Your ill-conceived accusations sully the reputation of a fine academic. And with Kevin Ridgeway’s daughter under this very roof! You have sunk to a new low, mailman.”
A stunned silence followed.
Seymour smugly folded his arms. “Thank you for the confirmation, Professor.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I didn’t name any names. You did.”
Brainert waved his hands. “Everyone knew who you were talking about.”
Leo Rollins blinked. “I didn’t.”
“Me, either,” Joyce Koh said.
Seymour’s gaze locked on Brainert. “Time’s up, Dr. Parker. Are you going to fess up?”
“To what?!” he sputtered. “I have nothing to confess! I’m not the one engaging in slander!”
“Knock it off. I know the truth. Why don’t you just admit it?”
“Admit what?”
“The last time I saw the word unbeknownst on a printed page—and that’s a lot of years of reading—was the one-word title of that horror story you wrote in ninth grade. Why, there were so many four- and five-syllable jawbreakers in that whopper you should have included a Merriam-Webster dictionary with the Xeroxes you handed out in Mrs. Meyer’s English class.”
“How dare you imply—”
“Oh, stop with the fevered outrage and confess already. You’re one of the trio of authors of this pulp potboiler. I’ll bet you and this Kevin Ridgeway concocted Shades of Leather together, like a couple of dirty old farts. You both knew you needed a woman’s touch for the erotic scenes, so you hired one for a literary three-way.”
“I’ve heard enough! I’m not listening to this character assassination one moment longer!”
Grabbing his coat, Brainert bolted for the exit. He moved so quickly that he nearly bowled over poor Bonnie Franzetti.
“Pardon me,” Brainert said to Bonnie. “I wish to depart from this madhouse. Will you assist me and unlock the front door, posthaste?”
Bonnie looked confused. “You mean now?”
“Posthaste—immediately, NOW!”
A few moments later, we heard Bonnie jingle the keys and Brainert slam out.
“Good night, Professor Parker!” she called.
Cold silence followed.
CHAPTER 39
Sleepless in Rhode Island
To expect the unexpected shows a thoroughly modern intellect.
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—Oscar Wilde, An Ideal Husband
“WHAT A DISASTROUS revelation . . .”
I was in bed, staring at the ceiling. My alarm clock read 1:15 A.M., and I listened to its ticking with wide-open eyes. When I felt that breath of cold air on my cheek, I welcomed it.
So, the mailman pitched a mean curveball? Well, here’s a clue. In the detective game, you almost never get a clean throw across the plate. There’s usually something screwy about every ball that comes your way.
“What’s with the baseball metaphors?”
Maybe it’s because half this town is batty, and your Brainiac pal is king of the belfry.
“We’re all a little eccentric in this town. Yes, Brainert’s an enigma, but that’s nothing new. He never had many close relationships beyond Seymour and me. His partner at the theater is pure business. Dean Wendell Pepper is a recently divorced—and thus newly freed—ladies’ man.”
And? No female entanglements for the egghead?
“The choice would be male, if he’d ever make one. And I wish he would. I want Brainert to be happy—to have someone he can confide in. If I had to guess, I’d say he had a bit of a crush on Professor Ridgeway, and the man’s death is hitting him hard because of his feelings. But it’s only a guess. And that’s the problem.”
In case you hadn’t noticed, baby, you have more than one of those.
“This one is personal, Jack. I’m hurt that Brainert lied to me. We’ve always been close friends, yet he refused to trust me with the truth about his involvement with Shades of Leather. I think Seymour was upset by it, too. I’m sure it’s why his analysis was so biting. When your best friend cowrites an international bestseller and doesn’t bother to mention it to you, well, you can see where Seymour felt hurt—and maybe a little jealous.”
Just like Brainert. Wasn’t he actin’ jealous the other day?
“You mean when he saw our promotional material for Professor Leeds? Sure, maybe academic jealousy is one of the things that’s been eating Brainert—or keeping him from eating, given what looks like stress weight loss. On the other hand, he could very well be stressed over being found out. Given the low first printing on Shades of Leather, Brainert probably thought the book would come and go with modest profits and little fanfare, just an anonymous small venture to make some extra money for his theater project. Now that the book is as big as it is, he’s probably dreading the reaction of his academic community.”
One man’s Treasure Island is another man’s trashy read, am I right?
“Exactly. If an accomplished colleague like Dr. Leeds learned that Brainert helped write what he would deem a tacky, commercial potboiler, Brainert could end up a laughingstock at best and lose his standing in the department, if not his entire teaching position. Not that Brainert admitted to being a cowriter of the work, but the similarities to that teenage story he wrote sound incriminating enough. And, of course, he blurted out Kevin’s name, an inadvertent admission in itself.”
You know your Brainiac friend has more to answer for than penning pulp fiction, don’t you, doll?
“I can’t bring myself to consider it.”
Then I’ll do it for you. Remember all those dusty volumes of American lit stacked up in the dead woman’s apartment? Maybe she gave a call to your local egghead emporium, asking for some expert advice.”
“It’s possible. I can’t deny that. With all those important first editions in her possession, Emma might have hoped for a sale of the collection to the university, for its archives. Brainert may have been sent to evaluate the books. He could have known her that way. If he did have contact, then he’s a suspect in her death. That’s a possibility I can hardly conceive of.”
You’re forgetting about the third party, baby.
“No, I’m not. I was getting to that. Seymour’s literary analysis claims a woman was a part of this three-way erotic-thriller writing team: ‘a woman of wit and humor, with a talent for the bawdy,’ to quote the postman.”
And Emma Hudson’s female friend is still missing, ain’t she?
“My thought exactly. Brainert must know who she is, but will he tell me?”
Rest those peepers, and I’ll give you a few other things to concern yourself with—and remind you of something you probably forgot . . .
CHAPTER 40
Trouble in Hell’s Kitchen
Fighting means you could lose. Bullying means you can’t. A bully wants to beat somebody; he doesn’t want to fight somebody.
—Andrew Vachss
I BARELY CLOSED my eyes before Jack returned me to the island of Manhattan. Once again, he turned the clock’s hands to 1947, and I was strolling along a sidewalk beside the big private eye.
“It was nice what you did for that woman,” I told him, “reuniting her with her dog, I mean.”
“Nice and profitable,” Jack said, adjusting his fedora. “Remind me to call Bennie the Bookie. I need to play William’s tip.”
“And lose what you’ve just earned?”
“Leave it to a dame to squeeze all the juice out of life.”
“Didn’t your client’s chauffeur leave you something else in that envelope of cash?”
“Yeah, doll, a tip on another client—he’s in the book business, just like you. Only he’s on the scribbling and printing end.”
“He’s a book publisher?”
“Why you askin’? Didn’t I just tell you? I used the pay phone at the terminal to call the man. I suggested we meet tomorrow at his office, but he’s in too much of a hurry to hire me. Says we should talk over drinks, so I suggested a bar not far from here, where we can do just that—and he can pick up the tab. We’re heading there now.”
Away from the busy ship’s terminal and its luxury passengers, the surrounding neighborhood was pretty seedy. Three- and four-story walk-up tenements crowded the block, with a gritty-looking set of toughs perched on every fourth or fifth stoop.
Jack moved closer to me, wrapped my slender arm around his iron bicep. “We’re heading into a dicey area, sweetheart. It’s got a bad reputation with a name to match. Stick to me like glue, okay?”
We passed a pair of young women walking boldly, sans white gloves or hats—the mark of feminine refinement in this era. One of them glanced in my direction, snapped her gum, and tossed her platinum blond hair.
“Well, ain’t she a fancy so-and-so.”
And if that wasn’t enough, one of the bruisers on a nearby stoop pointed at me and wolf-whistled. Soon he was joined by others, winking and whistling at me.
“Jack, I don’t like this.”
He glanced at the grinning men and frowned. “What’s the matter? You can’t take a compliment?”
“In my time this would be called harassment.”
“Why? Dames don’t want to be admired in your time?”
“We call it objectification.”
“You girls want to be called on what occasion?”
“No. Objectification! Women in my time prefer to be seen as whole people—not objects to be crudely judged on our body parts.”
“Sorry, kid, this is my time. To men on the street—hell, to men everywhere—your body parts are going to be an object of interest on all occasions.”
Our little talk was distracting, but only to us. The toughs kept whistling, and the street became grittier.
“Jack, this doesn’t look safe.”
“They don’t call it Hell’s Kitchen for nothing. But don’t worry your pretty red head. If you ain’t looking for trouble here, you probably won’t find it.”
Despite Jack’s assurance, we walked right into it—trouble, that is, by way of a four-man street brawl.
To my distress, instead of moving on, Jack Shepard stopped.
Whether it was his PI curiosity, street cop hardness, or ex-GI captivation with the sight of a raw fight, he paused to obser
ve three nautical-looking palookas pushing around a nicely attired gentleman.
Before I knew it, Jack shoved me into a newsstand kiosk.
“Stay put,” he warned. “And stay out of this.”
The dagger-shaped scar on Jack’s chin flushed red, and I knew why. What we assumed was an argument was looking more like an assault on a helpless victim, a lean, middle-aged, affable-looking gentleman in a pin-striped suit and wide yellow tie.
The gent’s tailored suit was of exceptional quality. I knew because the largest attacker used the suit’s lapels to lift the man right off his feet!
“You’ll stop askin’ questions about Mickey Sizemore if ya know what’s good fer ya,” the big man growled through a rack of gold teeth.
A second bruiser hopped from foot to foot, in a feeble imitation of a real boxer. A third slugged the gentleman in the kidney, to punctuate the big guy’s point. None of these thugs noticed Jack’s approach, though he quickly became the center of attention.
“You call this a fair fight?” Jack’s voice was surprisingly calm, like he was asking the time of day. “What a crew of mooks.”
Gold Teeth released the gent, who tumbled to the curb in a heap. With a mouth like a Tiffany shark, the big man turned his vicious, glittering grin on Jack Shepard.
“What are you gonna do about it?”
Jack braced his legs. “For starters? Flatten you.”
“You and what army?!”
“Just me,” Jack assured him. “How many slugs to the kisser do you think it will take to bring a big ape like you down, anyway? Two? Three? The whole nine yards?”
Stunned to face a foe actually spoiling for a fight, instead of a typically cringing victim, Gold Teeth thrust his hand into his worn peacoat and pulled out his equalizer—a bright, shiny .38.
Though he had a pistol pointed at his midriff, Jack didn’t flinch.
“You really don’t believe in a fair fight, do ya, you big, dumb ox?”
Though Jack was fearless, I wasn’t. At three to one odds, and a gun in the mix, I had to do something. So, I thrust my hand in my purse, dropped a coin on the counter, and grabbed a pack of chewing gum. The news dealer hardly noticed. Like everyone else on this block, he was gawking at the brewing brawl.