The Ghost and the Bogus Bestseller

by Cleo Coyle

  “Jack, I hope you have a suggestion.”

  Take it easy. Drive casual. Like you don’t think the driver might be a wiper.

  “A wiper?”

  A peg-out artist.

  “Huh?”

  A violin player. A widow-maker. A hit man—

  “Hit man!”

  Sure. You sang like a canary to the local flatfoots about Phil Hudson’s false alibi and his “Federal Hill” money. Button men come with the territory.

  I nearly skidded into a ditch. “If he’s an assassin, I shouldn’t be driving ‘casual’; I should be driving faster.”

  No. Stay in control. That’s the ticket. Whoever’s up your tailpipe is not aggressive, just a little too close for comfort.

  “It’s only a few blocks to Montrose Place and Shirley’s house.”

  Go. But if the hearse follows, don’t stop. Drive on until you find a red-blooded American copper.

  “What if that truck pulls a Christine and runs me off the road!”

  Six days a week I’m aces with your lingo, but you’ll have to clue me in on this dame Christine.

  “It’s a book by King.”

  King who? King of what?

  “Stephen. King of horror,” I whispered, glancing over my shoulder.

  Black as the Grim Reaper, the van edged closer. Then the driver flashed his headlights. There was a ten-second interval, and the lights flashed again.

  My eyes lingered too long on the mirror image and not on the road, so I almost missed the turn. I cut a sharp right onto Montrose. Tires squealed on the slick pavement, but I regained control after a scary fishtail.

  The black van made the turn with me. Its headlights flashed a third time.

  Use your Dick Tracy radio to call the law!

  As I fumbled for my smartphone, I realized Shirley’s house was on a cul-de-sac, and I’d driven myself into a trap!

  I spied a late-model BMW idling in the street, trunk open. The front door of Shirley’s tidy brick house was open, too. She must have been loading her car, so she wouldn’t be far away!

  Though it made me feel safer, as I rolled to a stop, I speed-dialed the Quindicott Police anyway. Meanwhile, the black van pulled up beside my car, close enough that our side mirrors nearly touched, close enough to box in my driver’s side door.

  With a shaky hand, I reached for my coffee. As weapons go, it wasn’t much, but I planned to dash the hot beverage into the driver’s face at the first hint of trouble. And if there was a second—

  Don’t worry, partner. I’ve got your back.

  CHAPTER 56

  Down the Up Staircase

  In Greek tragedy, they fall from great heights. In noir, they fall from the curb.

  —Dennis Lehane

  AS MY FINGERS tightened on the coffee cup, the passenger side window descended, and a familiar face peered at me.

  “Larry Eaton?” I lowered my window, and a blast of rain hit my cheeks. Only then did I realize I was already damp from a cold sweat.

  Who’s Baby Face?

  He’s the town plumber, Jack.

  We got spooked by a pipe-pusher with slippery pants?

  Larry’s cherubic smile dominated his round face. “When you left the Metro Mart, I noticed your taillight wasn’t working.”

  “Do tell,” I rasped, my heart still racing.

  “Bull McCoy wrote me a ticket for that same violation last week. Cost me fifty bucks! I wanted to give you a heads-up before you got nailed, too.”

  “You’re a guardian angel, Larry. I’m sorry about the chase. I would have stopped, but I didn’t recognize the van.”

  He nodded excitedly. “It’s new. I took my old clunker over to Stuckley’s to get that taillight fixed, and Kent Clark talked me into this beauty. I’m on my way to get my business logo stenciled on the side.”

  Larry made a U-turn and drove away. As he gave me a final wave, I heard an irritated voice speaking through my smartphone. My frantic and forgotten emergency call had been answered by dispatch, who sent it right to Chief Ciders.

  “So sorry, Chief. It was a false alarm.”

  “Then get off the line!” he roared. “I’ve got a smashup near the college that’s turned the campus into a parking lot!”

  I ended the call and took a breath. “Okay, Jack, let’s forget this happened, find Shirley, and get some answers.”

  I reached into the back seat to retrieve Shirley’s lost book, my hand brushing the bag where I’d put Emma Hudson’s leather gloves. I couldn’t help cringing, remembering her terrible end.

  That made me pause.

  I had misjudged Larry and his van.

  What if I misjudged Shirley, too?

  “Jack, what if Philip Hudson really is innocent, and Shirley is not only the third ghostwriter, but the killer, as well? It’s possible, right?”

  Almost anything’s possible, kiddo, in theory.

  “I know, I know. Get hard evidence.”

  I checked my phone again but still hadn’t heard from Seymour and Brainert. I could wait for them to join me here. By then Shirley might be off to Millstone . . . Millstone? I frowned, remembering—

  “Philip Hudson lives in Millstone. What if Shirley is meeting Philip for dinner? What if Shirley is innocent, just an anonymous writer, and Philip is the real killer, maybe working with hired help? That would explain why he had an alibi on the day of his ex-wife’s death. What if Hudson plans to end Shirley the same way Emma and Kevin Ridgeway were ended?”

  Slow down, baby, or you’ll “what if” yourself into the cackle factory.

  “Fine! I’ve decided. I’m pressing forward. Shirley knows I’m coming to return a book. I won’t present a danger or threat, so I should be safe. If I see those copies of Shades of Leather, I won’t say a thing. I’ll simply tail her to Millstone. If her meeting is with Hudson, I’ll call Eddie.”

  On my way to the house, I passed her car with the wide-open trunk and spied boxes of books inside. Obviously, Shirley was in the middle of moving her donations to the library. But so far, there was no sign of her.

  The front door stood open, but I rang the bell anyway.

  “Dr. Anthor? It’s Penelope McClure!”

  Silence followed. A spooky silence. I shivered—and not because of Jack’s spiking energy.

  Keep your peepers open, baby.

  I pulled out my phone, thumb ready to press the 911 button, and carefully entered the house. The foyer was flanked by a plant on one side and a deer-antler coat hanger on the other. When the corner of my eye caught a bulky male figure, I let out a shout.

  Cool your heels, doll. It’s just a steel scarecrow.

  Feeling stupid, I moved passed the suit of faux medieval armor guarding the hall, and called out again. My voice echoed back to me.

  The foyer ended at a flight of stairs to the second floor. Doorways stood on either side. One to the library and one to the kitchen. I headed for the library, assuming Shirley would be there.

  I was wrong.

  Alone in the room, I decided this was my chance to snoop. The walls were covered by heavy oak shelves. Most of the books were focused on medieval studies.

  Everything was tidy, except the antique desk, facing the curtained window. Its surface was layered with student papers, lesson plans, and textbooks—stratified by semester instead of geologic age.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I began my excavation, worried Shirley would come upon me at any moment. The first thing I uncovered was an old electric typewriter. I slid more layers of papers aside, until I found books, the kind that would have provided, ahem . . . inspiration for a writer penning Shades of Leather.

  On top was Story of O; then a Grove Press paperback of My Life and Loves by Frank Harris; and The One Hundred and Twenty Days of Sodom with a broken spine. Under those I found a coffee table bo
ok with illustrations of all 245 Kama Sutra positions.

  Beneath that, I counted six copies of Shades of Leather, all first printings and in pristine condition.

  “Eureka, Jack!”

  Looking around the room, I saw no other copies and quickly did the math. “Six copies were with Kevin, six with Brainert, and six here. That leaves six of the twenty-four copies still unaccounted for.”

  Who has the final six, do you think?

  “I don’t know, Jack, not yet.”

  Buried under the hardcovers, I found a vintage St. Francis University folder, and inside that, an old diary. I hurriedly flipped through the diary pages, skimming enough to be certain of what I was holding—

  “Jack, this is Emma Hudson’s diary!” (Now I had no doubt.) “I found our third author!”

  Sorry to rain on your parade. But you haven’t found anyone yet. That Shirley dame is missing.

  “She must be here . . . somewhere.”

  I crossed the hall to the kitchen, which was empty of all but plant life. There was a closed door near a breakfast nook, which I assumed would lead to a dining room.

  Wrong again.

  Behind the door I found a flight of rough wooden steps, leading to the basement and something else—Shirley Anthor. She was sprawled at the bottom of the steps, a burst cardboard box and dozens of hardcovers piled on top of her.

  I descended the stairs, carefully stepped around the woman, and kneeled beside her. I could not feel a pulse at her wrist, but the flesh was warm, and I held out hope that she was still alive.

  It was only after I’d cleared away the heavy hardcovers that I realized Shirley was lying on her stomach, yet her dead eyes stared up at me.

  “Her head. It’s twisted around. Her neck is broken, Jack. Could that happen from a fall down a flight of stairs?”

  Not like that. This was no slip and fall.

  I tried to quell the revulsion welling up inside me, but I started shaking uncontrollably at the sight of her corpse.

  Take a deep breath before you shoot your cookies.

  Fortunately, I didn’t shoot my cookies, though I did hurry to get out of there—

  Slow down! Jack counseled. Go back to the library.

  “Jack, I have to call the police!”

  Listen to me. Remember Doris Sizemore? To solve this case, you’ve got to pinch something, too—and not a reform school card.

  “You want me to take the diary?”

  It’s the key to the case, honey. You need to see what’s in there.

  “But this is a crime scene!”

  Sure it is. But you know and I know the local yokels won’t understand how to read that evidence. Not for a while. Maybe not ever. And the clock is ticking down on your egghead friend—and you, too.

  “Okay, Jack, you win.” I grabbed the diary and got out of there. “I’ll read it fast. Then the evidence is going to the police!”

  On the way to my car, I hit 911. Dispatch gave me Ciders.

  “Is this another false alarm?!” he barked.

  “No, Chief. It’s another corpse.”

  CHAPTER 57

  Wrong the First Time

  A doctor can bury his mistakes but an architect can only advise his clients to plant vines.

  —Frank Lloyd Wright

  GOOD NEWS, THE Keystone Cops arrived.

  “Bad news. Look who’s driving.”

  The first officer on the scene was none other than Chief Ciders’ ham-handed nephew, Bull McCoy. Though less than half his uncle’s age, McCoy already had the body of a high school athlete gone to seed—so out of shape that exiting his police car made him wheeze.

  After I told Bull I discovered Shirley dead in the basement, he ordered me back in my car until Ciders showed up to take a statement. Then he went inside the house.

  A few minutes later, Ciders’ police car loomed in my rearview, and the top cop was not alone. I didn’t recognize the man in the passenger seat, but I knew an argument when I saw one, even in mime.

  Looks like there’s some sort of a beef grilling in that donut wagon. Hackles are up and feathers are fluttering.

  “I’d like to know what they’re fighting about. But I doubt they’ll tell me.”

  Open the window and get out of sight, Jack ordered. Next to a gat in your pocket, eavesdropping is a gumshoe’s best friend.

  Too curious to argue, I followed Jack’s advice. Though the pedals dug into my ribs, I managed to squeeze my body close to the car floor before the squad car braked beside me.

  Nice move, doll. Now keep those ears wax free and listen.

  The chief made it easy. He was practically shouting. Then I heard the words “death at Pine Tree Avenue,” and I listened even harder.

  “I wish Quindicott could afford its own medical examiner. I’m sure any country doctor could do a better job than your Statie lab did with this.”

  “Be reasonable, Chief. I came all the way out here to deliver the news personally.”

  Ciders snorted. “Good thing, too. We’ve got more work for you and your so-called experts. I only ask that you don’t blow it this time.”

  “I did warn your deputy that our initial assessment might change, pending the results of our autopsy. And so it has.”

  “What I don’t understand is why.”

  “There was a considerable amount of soft tissue damage to the victim’s throat, along with evidence of a powerful blow to the thorax. The bruises around the neck and shoulders indicate the victim was assaulted, but the blow came first and likely rendered the victim unconscious, if it didn’t kill her outright.”

  “Why didn’t I notice any bruises? I examined the corpse, too.”

  “Her head was smashed against that rock. The subcutaneous bleeding was easy to miss under all that blood and brain matter.”

  “Then the woman was dead before she went off that balcony.” Ciders’ tone was glum. “How many days did I lose worrying about scofflaws when I should have been hunting a cold-blooded killer?”

  “Chief, the cause of death is the least of our worries. Turns out the dead woman is not who we thought she was.”

  What! I cried—almost out loud.

  What? Jack echoed in my head.

  “What!” Chief Ciders roared. “Are you sure?”

  “We had a positive ID from her ex-husband, so we thought we were in the clear. But fingerprints don’t lie. The dead woman is not Emma Hudson. Her name is Mae Stuart, a retiree who served the Providence, Rhode Island, library system for thirty years.” The doc paused. “We both made a wrong assumption and a big mistake.”

  “Maybe,” Ciders said. “Or maybe someone wanted us to think Emma Hudson was dead . . .”

  As the chief continued talking, my mind raced.

  “Jack, did you hear? Now it all makes sense . . .”

  I thought back to the day I went to Emma’s apartment and the things I noticed at the crime scene: the open suitcase in the second room; the missing mobile phone; even the missing Yorkie.

  “That mystery friend of Emma’s, the one who Mr. Brink was supposed to meet for dinner, the booklover. She was the woman who was murdered and tossed over the balcony—not Emma Hudson!”

  Emma must have asked this woman to stay with her and catalog the valuable book collection, which meant those footsteps I heard may not have been the killer. That might have been Emma fleeing the scene.

  “I don’t think Emma is the killer, do you? There’s no motive. And how could she know about Kevin Ridgeway and Shirley Anthor and Brainert Parker?”

  She couldn’t, Jack agreed. The bird took flight in fear. That’s what it looks like.

  “Fear for her own life.” I agreed with that theory. “Otherwise, she would have stayed to talk to the police.”

  It certainly explained why her little dog was gone, along with it
s bowl and leash and other doggy items. It explained why she took the Shades of Leather book, too.

  “But, Jack, how did she get away? Eddie found Emma’s car parked on the street.”

  Easy, sweetheart, she probably used the dead dame’s car. That’s how she beat the heat!

  I heard the voice of Bull McCoy call from the house. “Hey, Chief, you comin’ in?”

  “Yeah, we’re comin’. Show us what you found . . .”

  As Ciders and the doc moved toward the house, their voices faded. When I was certain they were out of sight, I started my car and got out of there.

  I knew Ciders would want my statement, and I would give it to him soon. Right now, I intended to examine the diary in my handbag.

  Jack was right. The clock was ticking down on a murderer at large, and I didn’t trust the locals to solve this in time. Not before the killer made certain Brainert and I ran out of it.

  CHAPTER 58

  Pretty Little Scribbler

  Fiction is based on reality unless you’re a fairy-tale artist.

  —Hunter S. Thompson

  I TURNED THE page on the final diary entry and swallowed another gulp of cold coffee.

  Outside, the last of the rain pattered against the windshield. The thunder and lightning had ceased, though the late-afternoon sky still roiled with storm clouds. My thoughts were roiling, too. The truth behind the bogus bestseller was wilder than any fiction. The heat of the diary alone seemed to steam up my car windows.

  “It’s just as I thought, Jack: Shades of Leather is a true story, and this is the hard evidence!”

  I waited for my gumshoe’s reaction, but silence was my only reply. “Jack? Jack! Don’t abandon me now!”

  The fog on the windows cleared up as the temperature quickly dropped.

  Sorry, honey, I lost track of time . . .

  I didn’t blame the ghost. After I fled the crime scene at Shirley Anthor’s house, I drove to Silva’s Seafood Shack, got a fresh cup of coffee, and returned to my car. Then I sat in the parking lot, riveted for well over an hour by the events of the diary. Jack, not so much.