The Ghost and the Bogus Bestseller

by Cleo Coyle

* * *

  ON THE DRIVE to Manhattan, the former Doris Sizemore tearfully told us her story.

  Orphaned at fourteen, Doris was left in the care of her delinquent older brother. When he and his punk friends were caught knocking over a liquor store, he was given a choice by a criminal court judge. He could join the navy or face eight years in Sing Sing. The war had just begun, and Mickey figured the draft would have gotten him anyway, so he opted for a long sea voyage.

  Alone, with no job and no skills, Doris did what a lot of young women were forced to do to survive—until she was arrested and sent to reform school. While learning stenography, she penned a story and sent it to Macklin’s short-lived mystery magazine Dark Façade.

  “It was rejected,” Doris confessed, “but Mr. Macklin wrote me such a nice letter. I knew that I wanted to work for him someday.”

  Years passed, the war ended, and Harry Macklin turned from magazines to books. Doris finished her time served with a secretarial degree, a smoothing of her Brooklyn rough edges, and a permanent stain on her record.

  Doris told us she’d been a voracious reader since she was a little girl. Once incarcerated, she read even more. She also became the fastest typist in the entire school.

  “One of my instructors helped me land a job at a printer’s office. Turned out my boss was an ex-con himself. So when I asked if he’d sign a letter of reference for me as ‘Dorothy Moreland,’ he said, ‘Sure, kid, I’ll do it.’

  “That’s when I started applying for jobs on Publisher’s Row. Mr. Macklin liked me from the start. I told him things about how his books were printed that he didn’t even know. I read enough to converse with him about writers, too: Dash Hammett and Chandler and James M. Cain—I so loved Mildred Pierce. Anyway, he hired me as his personal secretary . . .”

  Unfortunately, as Doris told it, Harry had the same luck with books as he had with magazines—very little. His company was floundering when Doris brought him a manuscript that she claimed she’d found in the slush pile.

  “The plot was based on a story my brother told me when he was running with his gang of street punks, so I put his name on it,” the tearful girl told us.

  “Next to the jam that landed me in reform school, it was the worst mistake I ever made. When Mickey found out, he threatened to tell Mr. Macklin the truth. I paid my brother to shut him up, because I knew if Harry Macklin found out his innocent secretary was a . . . a criminal, he’d fire me on the spot.”

  “How much did you pay your brother?” Jack asked.

  “Plenty, but Mickey wanted more. I wrote a second book, then a third. He took all the money, and it still wasn’t enough.”

  Jack passed his hankie to her, and Miss Moreland dabbed at her tears.

  “When Harry hired detectives to find Mickey, I wanted it to end. So I splashed the manuscript with pig’s blood from the butcher to convince everyone that Mickey Sizemore was dead.”

  Once again, tears filled her eyes as Miss Moreland turned to me.

  “What do I do, Mrs. McClure? As a woman, you know no decent man would have anything to do with me, not after learning how I got by on the streets. But Mickey knows my secret. He can ruin everything for me!”

  I took her hand. “Doris, they say the truth will set you free—and in your case, you need to get free of your abusive brother. Remember, Harry Macklin hired us to find the truth, so he’s going to learn it anyway. You might as well be the one to tell him. Come clean and confess, that’s my advice, whatever the consequences.”

  * * *

  * * *

  WHEN WE KNOCKED on the door of Harry Macklin’s plush Park Avenue apartment, he answered with a whiskey in one hand, a Cuban cigar in the other.

  “Jack! Penny! What brings you here?”

  “You wanted Mickey Sizemore?” Jack said. “Well, here she is.”

  Harry Macklin blinked, then donned the spectacles he’d tucked into his smoking jacket. “Miss Moreland? I don’t understand.”

  Jack removed his fedora. “I figured you liked Sizemore’s stories so much, you’d want to hear the latest from the horse’s mouth. It’s a doozy.”

  “Come in, come in.”

  Harry’s vast apartment was a real bachelor pad with a mirrored bar, a gorgeous view, and a large couch for entertaining the ladies. Like his office, the man’s living space was in total chaos. Despite the mess, Harry found more whiskey and cigars, and for the next hour Dorothy Moreland confessed all.

  She told her boss about reform school, her identity switch, her felonious brother, and how she wrote the books under his name. She even told Harry she tipped her brother off when he went to meet Jack Shepard.

  “I wanted him to scare you off, Mr. Macklin, not hurt you,” she explained. When her confession was over, the woman set aside her glass, rose, and straightened her skirt.

  “I’ll be going now, Mr. Macklin. You’ll have my resignation on your desk tomorrow morning.”

  Harry jumped to his feet so quickly he spilled his whiskey.

  “You poor kid,” he cried. “You’re not going near Canarsie, not even after I deal with your brother! You’re staying right here with me from now on, so I can look after you.”

  With that, he wrapped both arms around his secretary.

  “I’m willing to write a few more books for you, Mr. Macklin, if you can find a way to control my brother—”

  “Harry! It’s Harry! And I swear I’ll put your brother on a leash. We’ll make a deal with him to shut him up and leave you alone. If I have to, I’ll hire muscle to make sure he sticks to it.”

  “The truth is, Harry, what I really want to do is help you find better authors than the ones you’re publishing; new authors, who we can afford, but who have sensational stories to tell. I know your business inside and out, and I know what real people want to read. I know what will sell!”

  “I’ll bet you do, Dorothy!”

  “It’s really Doris, you know.”

  He put a protective arm around her frail shoulders.

  “Doris Sizemore is dead, and so is Mickey,” Harry replied. “You’re sticking with Moreland until you get hitched—and maybe after that. We’ll stick a hyphen in there or something.”

  “What are you saying, Mr. Macklin?”

  “It’s Harry. Just Harry!”

  Harry-Just-Harry was still cooing to his star author—and, most likely, future editor in chief—as Jack hooked my arm and pulled me out the front door.

  “Hey, aren’t you going to collect your fee?”

  “Sure, I’ll settle with Harry next week.” Jack shook his head and set the fedora on top. “Some things are worth more than twenty bucks and expenses.”

  I touched the big man’s shoulder and smiled. “Like reuniting another lost puppy with someone who cares for her.”

  CHAPTER 54

  Jack in the Box

  I do not believe they’ve run out of surprises.

  —Larry Niven

  THE NEXT DAY, I woke with a smile on my face. Quite a change from the heart-pounding terror Jack had left me with the last time he shared his memories of a case.

  I was glad things ended well for Dorothy Moreland and Harry Macklin. It started my day on a bright note. Pushing aside my window curtains, I let in the morning sunshine.

  While the warmth was pleasant, it was empty.

  Jack was gone again.

  Since I had no new leads, a son to get off to school, and a bookstore to run, I decided (for once) to trust Deputy Chief Franzetti and his fellow officers on the QPD to do more than write citations for every business on Cranberry Street.

  Maybe the “professionals” would actually track down the driver of the van that nearly killed my friend. Until they did, however, my worries would continue.

  I wasn’t the only one concerned for Professor Parker’s safety. Last night, Seymour insisted on his old friend s
leeping over at Tarnish Mansion. Typically, Brainert would have declined such an offer (in a microsecond), but last night he actually accepted the invitation.

  Obviously, Brainert was shaken up by the mounting stack of evidence that someone had intentionally run over Kevin Ridgeway, tossed Emma Hudson over her balcony, and was now out to “disappear” him.

  Though our bookshop wouldn’t open for another thirty minutes, Aunt Sadie was already working at her computer, Amy by her side.

  Today’s lesson was how to process book returns.

  After getting Spencer off to school, I brought down a fresh a pot of tea and a plate of toasted English muffins with jam made from locally grown raspberries. The ladies grinned when they saw the goodies.

  While we all munched, Amy continued her schooling, and I called Brainert and Seymour. Turns out they were having breakfast, too.

  “Hey, Pen. Hold on a second . . .” In a muffled voice, I heard Seymour speak to Brainert. “If you don’t like what’s on the table, there’s more cereal in the cupboard!”

  Then Seymour put us on speakerphone.

  “How are you two doing?” I asked.

  “Great, Pen,” Seymour replied. “Brainert’s still selecting his breakfast—”

  “There’s nothing in this cupboard but two more boxes of Froot Loops!”

  “Sorry, buddy, I must be out of Cap’n Crunch.”

  “We’ll have to stop at the student cafeteria,” Brainert huffed, “so I can eat something nutritious.”

  “We?” I said.

  “Yeah,” Seymour admitted, “I took some stockpiled personal days to bodyguard Professor Parker, twenty-four seven.”

  “And he’s letting you?”

  “We’ll see how it goes,” Brainert replied. “The mailman has already thrown me off schedule. I haven’t eaten breakfast and I have a ten o’clock class.”

  I knew the day might be trying for Brainert, but I was relieved that Seymour would be with him, watching his back.

  As the day progressed, the sunny sky grayed and clouds rolled in. Winds kicked up, stirring the trees, as intermittent drizzle streaked our store widows.

  Just after lunchtime, I noticed Amy pulling boxes out from under the front counter. “Ms. Thornton,” she called to Sadie. “There are three boxes of returns here. Not two.”

  “Let me take a look, honey.” As I checked each box, I realized one did not contain returns. It held books from the personal library of Amy’s father. Of course, I didn’t wish to upset the girl, so I said nothing.

  Instead, I sent Amy back to Sadie with one of the other two boxes. When she was gone, I had a thought—and decided to check Kevin’s box more thoroughly.

  The gold mine of first editions was still there, along with the six copies of Shades of Leather. A strip of brown paper lined the bottom of the box, and I pulled everything out to see if (crossed fingers!) a vintage St. Francis folder was underneath with maybe a stack of photocopied diary pages.

  Alas, no luck.

  I did notice a Post-it note in the stack, flagging a page in one of the books, so I pulled the volume out.

  As thunder rumbled in the distance, I scanned the title of the out-of-print hardcover by Daniel P. Maddox, Arms and Armor of the Middle Ages, its ominous black dust jacket well-worn and partially torn.

  I didn’t expect to find anything of use, but I checked the flagged page anyway, and found a note, written in an unfamiliar hand, tucked inside:

  Kevin,

  The villain is too easy on our heroine. The scene is a dud. He wants Justine dead and plans to do it with a sharp blade. On this page you’ll find illustrations of a few dirks, stilettos, and daggers. Pick one, and I’ll run with it. I’ll also revise the previous erotic scene to include your weapon of choice.

  Holy cow! I wanted to cry out, but with Kevin’s daughter in the shop, I held my tongue. Justine was the name of the heroine in Shades of Leather, and I remembered the scene with the dagger. It came early in the novel.

  Unfortunately, this telling note wasn’t signed.

  As I flipped around the pages, looking for more evidence, I realized this volume carried a bookplate. There, in bold, black print, was the name of the book’s owner, and it wasn’t Kevin Ridgeway, though it was a name I quickly recognized—SHIRLEY ANTHOR.

  “Professor Shirley Anthor,” I whispered. The same petite, middle-aged medieval scholar who’d given the Arthurian lecture for Brainert’s film series. The same Shirley Anthor who last night mentioned an out-of-print book she had “no chance of recovering.”

  Was it this very book?

  Suddenly, I was enveloped in a swirling cocoon of cold air.

  That’s some co-co-coincidence, baby—if I believed in coincidence.

  “It’s about to rain outside, Jack, but I think it’s already raining in Reno! Professor Shirley Anthor just might be our third ghostwriter.”

  MIGHT is right, because it’s not a fact yet. That note ain’t signed. Remember what I taught you?

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

  That’s right, sweetheart. So let’s go find it.

  CHAPTER 55

  Death Takes a Joyride

  Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.

  —Mandatory warning on car mirrors

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, I was heading out to see Professor Anthor.

  Before I left the bookshop, I called Shirley’s university office, but she wasn’t in. According to her teaching assistant, she had no afternoon classes and was working at home.

  “Then I can catch her there?”

  “I’d call first,” the young woman warned, giving me her mobile number. “I just talked to her, and she was packing up books to donate to the local library.”

  Perfect, I thought. If I can get into her house and innocently peruse her bookshelves, I might just spot the same literary evidence that gave away Professors Ridgeway and Parker—multiple first printing copies of Shades of Leather.

  When I phoned Shirley, I already had the perfect excuse to see her. “I found that out-of-print book you mentioned last night. It came in a box of donations. Your bookplate is still inside it. I’d be happy to return it to you.”

  “Great!” Shirley said. “When should I come by the shop?”

  “Tell you what. I’m driving by your neighborhood this afternoon. Shall I drop it off?”

  “Sure, I’ll be here for the next two hours. Then I’m heading to the library and meeting a friend in Millstone for dinner.”

  As I started the engine, cool air swirled inside my car.

  Let’s roll, sweetheart—

  Raindrops exploded on my windshield almost as soon as I pulled onto Cranberry Street. Soon the car was being pelted. With the afternoon sky nearly dark as twilight, I switched on the headlights as well as the wipers.

  The weather service predicted light rain, but the flash storm, blowing in from the Atlantic, proved the forecasters wrong. A sudden downpour turned my windshield into a waterfall. Getting off the road for safety, I made a stop at the Metro Mart for some caffeinated courage: a super large (and scalding-hot) coffee with three sugars.

  By the time I checked out, the worst had passed. The rain was still steady but negotiable, and I didn’t want to miss Shirley. Her house was near the ocean, and I had to get going.

  As I got behind the wheel, my phone buzzed with a text message.

  I assumed it came from Seymour or Brainert—though I’d told them my plan, I had yet to hear back from them. Not unusual, since Brainert had a strict “All phones off!” rule during his classes.

  But the text was from someone else. Philip Hudson—

  I need 2 C U about Emma’s death.

  I know U R asking Qs.

  I have answers. It is urgent we speak.
r />   “I don’t like this, Jack . . .”

  The lush is full of surprises.

  “Why does he want to talk so urgently?”

  He either knows something, like he claims, or he has something to hide.

  “Like maybe he really did get rid of his troublesome ex, and he wants to stop me from looking into it?” I shook my head and pulled back onto the highway. “I suppose it’s possible Kevin’s death was an accident and Brainert’s near miss was, too, and I’ve been reading too much into both.”

  And how do you explain the dead woman’s reaction to her photo on the bestseller? Or her diary being in the hands of the ghostwriters who wrote it?

  “I can’t—” And that’s when it struck me. “Shirley mentioned meeting a friend in Millstone. Philip Hudson lives in Millstone. Do you think it’s possible the two know each other? That Philip gave Emma’s diary to Shirley?

  Remember what I said about theories? You don’t know for sure this Shirley dame is the third ghostwriter. You need more. You need evidence—or a confession.

  At this point, I doubted it would be a confession to murder. The fact was, I couldn’t see bubbly, friendly, enthusiastic Shirley Anthor offing her colleagues for money or fear of exposure. But I could see Philip Hudson—with his drinking and duplicity—doing exactly that.

  “If Philip is the killer of the ghostwriters, then Shirley’s life may be in danger right now. And after that text message from the man, it looks like mine may be in danger, too!”

  So what are you going to do?

  “For now, ignore Philip’s message and get to Shirley.”

  No, doll, I’m talking about that hearse that you’ve glanced at once or twice in your mirror. It’s been following your car for the last several miles.

  “Really?”

  Jack was right. Now that I took a closer look, a dark panel van, one that fit the description of the vehicle that nearly killed Brainert, was pacing me. I didn’t see splotches of red in my rearview, but paint stains were easy to cover up. With the rain still steady, wipers moving, and a heavily overcast sky, I couldn’t tell who was driving—just a man with a collar up and a ball cap pulled down.