The Ghost and the Bogus Bestseller

by Cleo Coyle

  “Enough! I don’t care about Leeds and his awful, pompous attitude. What I care about is solving this mystery.”

  “Oh, very well!” Brainert went back to reading names. “Jessica Pardy—”

  This is Jeopardy! This is Jeopardy! Squawk!”

  “Melissa Hunt, Ph.D. Department of Theater Arts.”

  Waldo preened his feathers and glanced away.

  And so it went, seemingly forever. When we finally finished, it was well past midnight.

  “What do you think?” Seymour asked. “Who’s our most likely culprit?”

  I glanced at my notes. “CNN’s Sanjay Gupta. But I’m guessing he has an alibi.”

  CHAPTER 51

  The Way We Were

  The past is whatever the records and the memories agree upon.

  —George Orwell, 1984

  DECLARING THAT “FAILURE made him hungry,” Seymour went to the kitchen to whip up snacks. Dejected, I sank into the oversize Victorian couch.

  The bird was no help at all, Jack. The stool pigeon was just another dead end.

  A draft swirled around me. Given your pal’s close call with a paint can, you better find a way around this detour. Or that dead end may turn into a dead friend.

  The spirit’s words chilled me more than he did.

  “We still don’t know the identity of the other writer, Brainert. How am I going to protect you?”

  “Protect me? Who says I need protection?”

  “I do. Emma Hudson stumbled upon her stolen image, used to help sell Shades of Leather, and she was dead in a matter of hours. Kevin Ridgeway worked on the book, and he was brutally run down on a dark road. You helped write it, too, and the same thing almost happened to you—and in broad daylight. It seems to me this killer is becoming more desperate, maybe even unhinged.”

  “What happened to Kevin and to me could have been random accidents. Emma Hudson was probably an accident, too. Didn’t you read your Quindicott Bulletin?”

  I wanted to scream. “Fine. Believe what you want, but I say we need to find this other author and determine whether she’s behind this string of so-called accidents.”

  “All right. I’ll indulge you. What would be her motive?”

  “Remember what you said about how she turned in her pages? No electronic trace. Maybe she wasn’t counting on the book getting so much attention, and now she’s obsessed with keeping her identity secret. And don’t forget the money. That novel stands to rake in millions now that it sold to Hollywood. She may want to keep it all.”

  “But I have no contract, no legal recourse. With Kevin gone, I can’t even prove I was involved.”

  “You could muddy the waters. If you spoke up about the truth behind the book, there would be demands for Jessica Swindell to step forward and answer the charges.”

  “But Jessica Swindell doesn’t exist. It’s Ridgeway’s pseudonym.”

  “No, Brainert, it’s Ridgeway’s and your pseudonym, along with this third writer, who Ridgeway brought in. With one ghostwriter turned into a ghost, you nearly sent to the spirit world, and the subject of the book’s author photo sent over a balcony—all in the space of one week—it seems to me the third author could very well be a murderer!”

  In the long silence that followed, the professor’s pale skin went even paler.

  Either he’s ghosting you again, sweetheart, or you finally cracked the egghead.

  Just then, Seymour returned in his lord-of-the-manor wear: maroon ascot and gold smoking jacket (even though he didn’t smoke). Proud of his hosting abilities, he set down an antique silver tray laden with sizzling, preprocessed microwavable foods.

  “I spread this repast before you. ’Tis my Hot Pockets combo.”

  Brainert made a face. “What’s that bowl in the middle?”

  “The house dipping sauce, prepared by yours truly.”

  “So, there’s something actually made in a kitchen and not an industrial facility?”

  “Hey, it’s hot and it’s free. Plus, I’ve got root beer. You’re lucky I didn’t serve Tang.”

  Despite Brainert’s snipe, he was the first to dig in, and he ate quite a bit. After a few minutes of munching, Seymour waved his phone.

  “I used a universal calendar to find all the Monday, June sevenths, and I’ve concluded the diary was written in 1971.”

  “How did you determine that?” I asked.

  “The diarist wrote that a song on the radio reminded her it was Monday. The song she’s referring to is ‘Rainy Days and Mondays’ by the Carpenters, which topped the Billboard charts in June of 1971.”

  “And she did use the term groovy in her diary,” I pointed out.

  “Technically, the term’s been in use since 1937,” Brainert said.

  “But it did dominate youth slang through the late sixties and early seventies,” I countered, and then calculated in my head. “Given Emma Hudson’s age, she would have been in her late teens or early twenties in 1971. Could she have possibly been the diarist as well as the model for the author photo?”

  Not likely, I thought as soon as I asked it, recalling Philip Hudson’s description of his ex-wife . . .

  “Emma Royce was a California girl, through and through. She was raised by a wealthy family in Pacific Heights, and only left San Francisco to start her own New Age spiritual center in Venice Beach . . .”

  Jack grunted at my memory of Philip’s words. You’re kidding, doll, aren’t you? That boozehound was crying to the police about his ex-wife’s death the same morning he chirped like a canary on the phone to you. He told the coppers he was in New York and you he was in Providence. He said he lived a life of “leisure” in California while his ex gives a list of his failed business ventures to her neighbor downstairs. You really want to rely on what Philip Hudson says?

  I get your point. But why lie about Emma’s upbringing—and so specifically? Unless she lied to him. That seems more likely. People like to remake themselves—that’s not uncommon. Either way, she might have grown up around here. And Philip did claim she was an expert in tantric sex, which also suggests she might have written the diary.

  Doll, when are you gonna learn? Why rely on “might” when hard evidence can tell you whether you’re wrong or right?

  Hard evidence of what?

  You know what. You got the dead dame’s handwriting!

  I nearly dropped my Hot Pocket. “Guys, listen! We should compare the handwriting in those diary pages with Emma’s handwriting!”

  Brainert blinked. “You have a sample of her handwriting?”

  Nodding like mad, I called up my mobile phone photos of Emma’s mileage logbook, the one Eddie retrieved from her car on the day she died.

  “Brainert, did you bring the diary pages?”

  He produced them, and we all studied the evidence.

  “Check it out,” Seymour said. “Notice how the letter S is larger than the other letters in both the mileage logbook and in the diary?”

  I pointed. “And see the way both writers put a slash through the number 9. That’s unique . . .”

  Brainert found similarities, too, enough that he finally agreed with me and Seymour.

  “The handwriting looks the same.”

  Progress at last! If you were alive, I would kiss you, Jack!

  And I would pucker up.

  CHAPTER 52

  Get Out of Jail Free Card

  Very few of us are what we seem.

  —Agatha Christie

  LYING IN BED that night, my heart was still pounding.

  My friends and I had uncovered a shocking secret about the most talked-about book in the country. Shades of Leather, a supposed work of fiction, wasn’t fiction, not entirely, anyway. An old diary of Emma Hudson’s had served as the basis for the tale.

  Come on, sweetheart, there’s a bigger shock
than that behind your bogus bestseller.

  The cool whisper of Jack’s arrival gave me a shiver.

  “You’re talking about Emma’s murder?”

  How many authors do you know who toss the subject of their book over a balcony?

  “None, and that’s the problem. The most important piece of this puzzle is still missing.”

  The piece with the killer’s name on it.

  “And other pieces, too, ones that might help us see the whole picture. Like why did Emma move to California and lie about her past?”

  That’s not a hard nut to crack.

  “True. Lots of women make changes in their lives, start over someplace new.”

  “Make changes”? Jack snorted. You still don’t get it, do you?

  “Get what?”

  Lots of Do-Right Janes start over, sure. You did it yourself, when you moved back here to Cornpone-cott. But you never lied about your past, did you? You never tried to cover it up.

  “No . . .” I said, stifling a yawn. “Why would I?”

  You would if you had something to hide.

  “And what did Emma have to hide?”

  When I was workin’ the meanest streets of Manhattan, as a flatfoot and then as a gumshoe, I only knew one kind of bird who wanted to erase her past—a jailbird.

  “Jailbird . . .”

  I repeated the word. It knocked around my brain until my eyes drifted closed.

  * * *

  * * *

  I WAS NO longer in my quiet bedroom, snoring the night away. I was back on that crowded Manhattan sidewalk, traffic horns blaring as I faced down a car the size of a freight train.

  In crippling heels and a long, tight skirt, running wasn’t an option. Before I even tried, a strong arm circled my waist and yanked me into a doorway.

  The thug behind the wheel was forced to turn, missing us by a hair. Then the DeSoto veered off the sidewalk, clipping a fire hydrant as it bounced into the street and sped away.

  For a moment, my body went limp. When I came to, I found myself looking into Jack’s steel gray gaze. His face was so close to mine I could feel his breath on my cheek.

  “Where am I?” I sputtered.

  “Exactly where I want you, baby. In my arms—minus that horrified look on your face.”

  “Sorry, Jack, but my heart is pounding!”

  “Don’t worry, doll. I got the universal cure for that.”

  “What is it?”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “A good stiff one.”

  * * *

  * * *

  TEN MINUTES LATER, I accepted the glass of Scotch from Jack’s rough hands.

  “You’re still shaking, sweetheart. Better shoot it.”

  Throwing back my head, I swallowed the amber liquid and squeezed my eyes shut, figuring if the burning liquor didn’t wake me from this dream, nothing would. But when I opened my eyes again, I was still in a smoky, dimly lit, oak-lined gin joint, circa 1947.

  No ESPN playing here, just a radio announcer calling horse races; a scarred wooden bar; and a big tattooed guy standing behind it with a ball bat and .38 within reach.

  I was one of maybe three women in the entire place. Nobody here noticed. They kept to their own business, which was mainly hard drinking—and reading their racing forms.

  As for me, my ridiculous, cork-shaped tower of a hat was gone, but my red suit and white gloves were back in place, along with those pinching underthings. I fidgeted on the barstool, trying to adjust my armor-like girdle without ripping my skirt off.

  Despite the Scotch, I was still feeling breathless, still seeing certain death bearing down on me.

  “I thought it was curtains for both of us.”

  Jack poured me another and offered a wry smile. “We both know a runaway DeSoto ain’t what stops my clock. It’s just not in the cards.”

  “The card! Oh my gosh! Have you still got the card? I pinched it out of the purse of Harry Macklin’s secretary.”

  “Got it right here.” He patted his lapel. “And I’m impressed.”

  “I knew there was something suspicious about Dorothy Moreland. Now we know that’s not even her name. It’s Doris Sizemore—some coincidence, right? Same last name as Macklin’s missing star author, Mickey.”

  Jack pulled the card out of his pocket and turned it in his hand.

  “New York State Training School for Girls,” he read.

  “Is that a prison?”

  “It’s a couple of birthday candles shy of one. It’s a place to house incorrigible girls, until they grow up to be incorrigible dames.”

  “How do you think she ended up there?”

  “Any doll between twelve and seventeen can do time there if she got on the wrong side of the law. This card shows that Macklin’s mousy secretary did her time and is ready to return to society.”

  “It also says she’s a trained stenographer.”

  “They teach the girls skills, so they won’t go back to doing what jammed them up in the first place.”

  “I see—and I can guess why Doris Sizemore changed her name.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She probably couldn’t find work on Publisher’s Row, not with a criminal record. So, she took the name Moreland. How she got Macklin to hire her is a mystery to me, but it’s clear she developed a terrible crush on her boss; and with her real last name the same as the missing author’s, I’d say Mickey Sizemore is her father or uncle—someone who’s a born storyteller and had some hard knocks in life.”

  I told Jack what I knew about the author, and it wasn’t much.

  “Sizemore’s books are pretty dated, as I recall, and he died sometime in the 1950s. But he wrote colorful characters, and I can see why his books were bestsellers in his day. He knew the truth about the seamier side of the city, including prison life, and I’m guessing he wrote from experience.”

  “I know a lot of miscreants and ex-yardbirds, but they got booked. None of them ever wrote one. And why all the drama, do you suppose? The bloody manuscript, the disappearing act?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Mickey Sizemore never thought his books would do so well. Now the pressure is on to write more, but he doesn’t want to. He’s out of ideas, or he’s just tired.”

  “Why not just say so to Macklin?” Jack scratched the scar on his chin. “Why use Doris to deliver a bloody manuscript?”

  “You got me there.”

  “What about this mug with the gold dentures? The guy who doesn’t want Mickey Sizemore found? Who do you think he is?”

  “Best guess? Someone the author hired to scare Macklin—and us, too—from trying to find him.” I took another sip of Scotch for courage. “So now what?”

  “I’ve heard your theory, partner. You tell me.”

  “That’s easy. I saw Dorothy’s gas bill in her purse, so I know where she lives.” I glanced at the horseshoe clock on the wall. “I say we stick with our original plan and pay her a visit. She should be heading home from work soon. With the right pressure, I’m sure she’ll tell us how to find Macklin’s missing author.”

  Jack finished his Scotch in one gulp. Then he slid off the barstool and donned his fedora.

  “Just remember, Penny. Theories are fine to start, but the case don’t end till you find hard evidence.”

  “All right, Jack. Then let’s go find it.”

  CHAPTER 53

  Family Feud

  When I type “The End,” it’s like being paroled from prison.

  —Clive Cussler

  JACK AND I tailed Dorothy Moreland from the subway station. We watched her buy groceries and a paper before turning onto a quiet street in Canarsie, Brooklyn.

  We planned to confront her on the front stoop of her three-story walk-up, when somebody beat us to it.

  “Trouble,” Jack said, jerking his t
humb at a too-familiar brown DeSoto speeding down the block.

  The car braked hard, the door opened, and out popped Gold Teeth. He left the vehicle idling, the door wide open, as he charged up to a rattled Miss Moreland.

  “Doris!” he bellowed.

  “I told you not to call me that,” the frightened woman shot back. “It’s Dorothy.”

  He brushed off her complaint. “I need three yards, right now—”

  “Three hundred dollars!”

  “And maybe another grand next week.”

  Miss Moreland—or should I say Doris Sizemore—backed away from the big man. “I don’t have that kind of money! Honest, Mickey.”

  Mickey?! Gold teeth is Mickey?!

  Gobsmacked, Jack and I exchanged astonished glances.

  “You’re my sister, so you gotta help,” Mickey Sizemore growled. “You’re getting paid for that new book, ain’t ya?”

  “You took the advance, Mickey. There’s no more money until publication—”

  “Let’s see what you got, then!”

  Horrified, I watched Sizemore push his sister to the stoop, and the groceries scattered. He slapped the cowering woman’s hand aside and reached for her purse.

  Jack cursed low. His long legs and rapid stride carried him right up to Mickey Sizemore. Gold teeth flashing, Sizemore reached for his gun—only to remember the PI had relieved him of his iron in Hell’s Kitchen.

  By then, Jack was on him. There were no niceties, no exchange of snappy patter this time. The gumshoe slugged Sizemore, and the man went down.

  Jack quickly helped Miss Moreland to her feet.

  “Move your Mary Janes before the mug gets up again!”

  Heels clicking, I caught up with Jack as he pushed Miss Moreland into the idling DeSoto. I dived into the back seat beside her, and Jack took the wheel. As Mickey Sizemore began to stir, we sped away, his curses echoing after us, down the Brooklyn block.

  * * *