The Ghost and the Bogus Bestseller

by Cleo Coyle

  That little girl sure did get a kick out of making the springs sing. Me? I’d rather make whoopee than write about it. Give me the highlights, will ya?

  “Okay, let’s start with the basics. This diary was written by a girl in the 1970s. She was orphaned and put in foster care in her early teens. Her name was Stacy Baylor; and, according to the shocking things I read in this diary, she had good reason to flee Rhode Island, change her name to Emma Royce, and make up an entirely new history for herself.”

  What did she do, kill one of the fellas she slept with?

  “No—and keep in mind that she was legally still a child, only seventeen, and technically underage. At a dance club one night, she met a young man who she called ‘Dodger’ in the diary. He was a grad student, good-looking, on an athletic scholarship. They slept together often, and he introduced her to a lot of kinky stuff. He also brought her to private parties. This was a time period known as the ‘free love’ era—”

  Like I already told you, no such thing as free love.

  “The girl in the diary hooked up with at least a dozen different men, two of whom were dealing drugs and one of whom was a crooked politician. She never writes their full names, only nicknames and occasionally some physical characteristics.”

  Physical, right, since she knows how their hambone’s boiled.

  “Their what? NO, don’t tell me. I get it.”

  Go on, doll.

  “Two of these drug dealers sweet-talked her into dropping out of high school to take a job at a furniture store. They rented her an apartment above it. She partied with these guys, after hours, and they did plenty of drugs. Then they told her their ‘brilliant idea’ of using the couches in the store to move large amounts of drugs around the region without detection. At that point, Stacy was enthralled by these men, and addicted to the drugs, which they supplied to her. So, of course, she agreed to help them commit these crimes.”

  This ain’t gonna end well. Give me the skinny.

  “She wrote that she finally wanted out. The men started treating her badly, and she was desperate to be free of them, but she knew too much. She started obsessing about Marilyn Monroe and was sure if she tried to say no to any more criminal activity, these men would kill her, probably make it look like a fatal overdose. So she decided to kill herself first. That’s how she ended the diary. She wrote, ‘I’m going to end this. Not like Marilyn. I’m going to die my way.’ And I believe she did kill herself by killing the identity of Stacy to become Emma.”

  I drained my coffee cup. “What I’d like to know now is how this diary ended up on Shirley Anthor’s desk.”

  And how did the perky professor end up at the bottom of her basement steps?

  “I don’t know who killed Shirley. But I’ll tell you who didn’t: Philip Hudson.”

  Why not?

  “Because I believe whoever killed Shirley also killed the librarian at Pine Tree Avenue—and did it by mistake. Philip knows what his ex-wife looks like. He wouldn’t have killed the wrong woman. And we know he was in Providence at the time.”

  Unless he hired an idiot thug to do it, and the killer got confused.

  “I don’t think so, Jack—and I’ll lay out why in a minute. First, think about this. The morning after Emma’s death, Eddie Franzetti described Philip as ‘broken up’ when he got back from Providence and heard the news. Then, only a short time later, Philip is chipper as a canary on the phone with me.”

  And you don’t think he was playing the violin for the yokels?

  “I think between the time he heard Emma was dead and the time we spoke on the phone, Emma contacted him for his help. I think that’s why he intentionally misidentified the dead woman and why he fed that false story to the Quindicott Bulletin. I think he still cares about his ex-wife and is trying to protect her.”

  That’s a pretty sentimental view. You could be wrong. And if you’re wrong, honey, you could be dead.

  “I could be dead soon anyway, and I’ve got to trust my judgment. I read enough of your case files to know you played your hunches, too, didn’t you?”

  You got me there. So, what’s your hunch?

  “That an academic colleague of Shirley’s and Kevin’s and Brainert’s is the man behind these murders—this Dodger character. I’ll bet he’s the one who had the diary for all these years. How did he get it? Why did he keep it? I don’t know. But I’m thinking he had it. And he used it to create a bestselling erotic thriller. He even used an old, sexy photo of Emma to serve as the image of the author, which tells me he thought she was dead . . .”

  Go on, baby, this theory has potential. Sounds like all the pieces are finally fitting.

  “When Emma ran out of my shop in a state of hysteria, she nearly ran over Wanda Clark, remember? Wanda said Emma was on the phone with someone, arguing violently. And she heard Emma shout the words, ‘Sorry isn’t enough!’

  “Emma’s librarian friend was killed only a few hours later. According to the medical examiner, the woman was attacked before she was sent over the balcony. As I said, Philip was in Providence; and a few hours is hardly enough time to hire an assassin and arrange a hit. No. It’s more likely that whoever murdered Emma’s friend thought he was getting rid of Emma, which means he hadn’t seen her in years.”

  Wrong place. Wrong time. I saw that enough in life—and come to think of it . . .

  “I know, Jack, the big chill is no joke. And I think it was Dodger who gave it to that poor, innocent woman. Dodger was the only man in the diary who the girl routinely confided in. He kept sleeping with her, and sweet-talking her, but he didn’t care enough to help her, even after she begged him. She described him as a tall, muscular guy, an athlete—yet he continually claimed he was afraid of the drug dealers and their friends. In the diary, she started referring to him as Dodger the Worm. And he’s the most likely person in her circle to have kept a picture of her and landed a job at a university like St. Francis.”

  It makes sense to me. But it’s still just a theory. What are you gonna do about it?

  “Find the evidence to prove it. But I’m going to need help.”

  Not the Keystone Cops.

  “No. Emma’s ex-husband.”

  I called up the text from Philip Hudson. The one I never answered. Hitting reply, I typed my message:

  Philip, I have the diary. We need 2 talk.

  Want 2 know all that U know.—Pen

  I waited for a reply. It came within five minutes:

  Pen, want 2 trust U. Must ask 4 proof.

  If U really have diary, meet me at the Beach House 2 night.—Phil

  I quickly opened the diary to one of the entries. “I found it!”

  Lay it on me, honey.

  “The Beach House was owned by a wealthy family who bought furniture from the store where Stacy/Emma worked. The family used the house only a few months in the summer and kept it closed the rest of the year. That’s when she would go out there and squat. It was her place to be alone and ‘get herself together to think,’ as she put it. She was at the Beach House when she made the decision to break free of the men who’d effectively enslaved her.”

  And where is this beach house? On the Atlantic coast, I’ll bet. That only gives you a thousand miles to comb through.

  I flipped through the diary, looking for another reference, and noticed a sticky note on a page near the end. I’d been so gripped by the diary, I hadn’t stopped to read it.

  “Jack, this note is in Professor Anthor’s handwriting . . .”

  Kevin, I finally worked out who “Dodger the Worm” is. You know, too, don’t you?—S

  “Shirley knew, Jack! Before she was killed, she figured out who Dodger was, and she believed Kevin knew, too!”

  And now you’re close to knowing, sweetheart, so keep your peepers open tonight, wherever you’re going. Or you could end up like they did. Where a
re you going, anyway? Got a clue yet?

  “Here it is—I found the reference. The Beach House is in Denton Cove. That’s not far from here!”

  You better bring backup.

  “I’ve got you, don’t I?”

  For this you need more than a willing spirit. Ring that postman again—and his puny professor pal.

  * * *

  * * *

  I DID AS Jack suggested (I’d planned to anyway), and Seymour put me on speaker with Brainert.

  I filled the pair in on everything that happened, including Shirley Anthor’s “fall” down her steps, my pinching of the Shades of Leather diary, and my hunch on the identity of the killer.

  Brainert approved of my guess, and so did Seymour, who even recognized the location of Denton Cove.

  “Been there,” he said, “but not for years. The locals call it Dead Teen Cove.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s an urban legend, Pen. A teenager drowned herself there decades ago, and now her ghost supposedly haunts the place. It’s private land, anyway, and very few people go there.”

  “Do you remember a beach house?”

  “Sure, but you can’t see it from the shore. The place is in the woods, above the cove.”

  “We’ll find it,” I assured them. Then the postman and his professor pal sent me a map, and we all agreed to meet there.

  CHAPTER 59

  Pleasure Victim

  She’d been too eager, too trusting, too hungry for love. Now she knew too much, and her life had turned cheap. These men she’d slept with would snuff her out as easily as a spent cigarette.

  —Jessica Swindell, Shades of Leather

  THE MAP PROVED less than helpful. A wrong turn had me driving in a big circle. Finally, I spotted the muddy lane and followed it. A quarter mile later, I reached the cove.

  White waves crashed against jagged beach rocks on this curving line of rugged coast. Tangled woods ringed the shoreline. In the stormy winds, the ancient trees swayed like dark giants.

  I saw no sign of the beach house. Seymour said it was located in the woods above the cove, so I followed the tree line until I found a path marked with a warning.

  PROPERTY OF HUDSON DEVELOPMENT

  NO TRESSPASSING

  “This has to be the right place, Jack.”

  I hurried along the path, until I emerged from the trees in front of the rickety old house.

  The sagging structure was still fenced in, but in such disrepair, no one could possibly live there. So, I was surprised to see a single guard dog present—if you could call the tiny thing that. On the other hand, the angry Yorkie, leashed to the front porch, did bark like it hated all humanity. Seymour was right!

  Jack, we did it. We found Emma!

  “Who are you?!” a hysterical voice demanded. “What are you doing here!” Something hard and metallic poked my spine.

  Sorry, doll, but I think she found you.

  I faced Emma Hudson—and the gun she was waving.

  “Don’t shoot! I’m Penelope McClure, from the bookstore. I’m not here to hurt you.”

  Her eyes blinked in recognition, but she didn’t lower the weapon. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”

  How about the thirty smackers for that book you pilfered?

  “I came to see you, Emma.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “Philip told me, after I told him I found your diary. I know your real name is Stacy Baylor. I know everything. You can trust me. Philip does.”

  Emma lowered the gun. “He texted that someone might be coming . . .”

  “Why are you hiding, Emma? What are you afraid of?”

  Her laugh was brittle and cut off abruptly. “I suppose you thought I was crazy. The way I went off in your store like that. But the book you handed me had my picture on the cover, and if you read my diary, then you know that bestseller exposed my whole past to the world. I panicked, Mrs. McClure, and I had a good reason to be afraid.”

  “Of being found out. I understand—”

  “No. You don’t. Because it wasn’t in the diary. You see, Mrs. McClure, when you steal two million dollars from a pack of ruthless gangsters, fear is just common sense.”

  Two million smackers! See, doll, I told you she could afford to buy your book!

  For a moment, I couldn’t find my voice. “You stole two million dollars from those drug dealers?”

  Emma nodded. “You better come inside.”

  She led me into a house so run-down it made Whitman Brink’s digs look like the Taj Mahal. Forget fading paint and peeling wallpaper. There were missing floorboards and walls without plaster, where the rotting frame was exposed.

  Emma was holed up in the first-floor study—a drafty room with a bay window, now curtained by shabby velvet. A cot, a tiny refrigerator, a space heater, and a hot plate completed the poverty row decor.

  The shabby surroundings didn’t bother Yummy, Emma’s Yorkie (named after Yab Yum, a tantric pose, she informed me). The angriest dog in the world was content with a cardboard box, a blanket, and Emma by her side.

  In the harsh illumination from bare bulbs, Emma looked haggard—not the stylish, confident woman who came into my shop last Saturday; more like Miss Havisham, forlornly waiting for her lost lover.

  We sat on wobbly chairs. Between us, a rickety table held her gun and the battered copy of Shades of Leather (the one she took from my shop).

  Now that she knew I’d spoken to Philip, Emma opened up.

  From her mature perspective, she recounted her past, telling me she’d been a wild, promiscuous, very stupid seventeen-year-old, impressed by rich men twice her age, and drawn in by easy money—plenty of it.

  The couch smuggling worked well for the men who were using her, and they became even richer. Then they started moving more than drugs. Laundered money and weapons entered the picture, and her life with these criminals became a nightmare. She wanted out, and she feared going to the police. She knew cops were being paid off to look the other way, but she didn’t know which ones. She didn’t know who to trust. She wanted to be safe again, away from all of it.

  Suddenly alert, the dog sat up. Emma patted the Yorkie’s head.

  “So, you stole some of their money to fund your getaway?”

  “You’re darn right I did. That decision saved my life. I intercepted one of the shipments, stashed the money and some personal things in a storage bin in Salem, and drove to this very cove to fake my own drowning.”

  “You mean, you’re the ‘dead teen’ in Dead Teen Cove?”

  Emma’s eyes widened. “Is that what they call Denton Cove now?”

  “They used to, so I’m told. People even believed it was haunted.”

  Quivering, the Yorkie began to bark. Emma was apologetic.

  “Yorkshires are high-strung, Mrs. McClure. And very aggressive. They were actually bred to corner barn rats.”

  At her mistress’s insistence, Yummy quieted, but she continued to emit low growls. I thought the dog might sense the presence of Jack or the approach of Brainert and Seymour, but I didn’t want to spook Emma by mentioning them (the living men, that is). Not yet.

  “Why did you come back, Emma?”

  She explained that it was necessary to secure Philip Hudson’s inheritance. Over the years, Philip’s failed business ventures had depleted every last dime she had. Now that she was destitute, she was desperate for her share of his inheritance. After so many years of supporting him, Philip said he honestly felt he owed her the money.

  “And you trust him?” I said. “Even though he’s dealing with the mob?”

  “The mob?”

  “He told me he secured a loan from a Federal Hill moneyman.”

  Emma bit back a laugh. “You mean the hedge fund? It’s based in Providence and run by one of Philip�
��s old school chums. His friend agreed to make the loan.”

  “That’s the moneyman?”

  She nodded. “Philip had big plans to revitalize Millstone. He was bitter about my refusal to support his vision. But once I finally confessed my whole ugly past to him, he finally understood why I refused to settle here permanently. Now that he knows my story, he’s going to give the money back—and after he gets his share of his father’s inheritance, we’re remarrying and getting out of here together.”

  I could certainly understand her desire to get clear of her past once more. But I couldn’t help questioning her decision to come back here in the first place.

  She admitted now that it was a mistake. But at the time, she believed enough years had passed that no one would recognize her. She’d been declared dead, after all. Still, as a precaution, she used an Internet search engine to learn how many of her former associates remained in the area. She couldn’t confirm the whereabouts of the drug dealers, but she did find a local address for Dodger the Worm, and she planned to avoid him.

  After seeing Shades of Leather in my bookshop, however, she placed a panicked, half-hysterical call to the man.

  He apologized, but quickly defended himself. Like everyone else, he thought she was dead. When Emma phoned him, livid and almost crazed over what he’d done, he agreed to meet her at her apartment the next day and pay her off to stay silent. He promised to hand over the diary and enough cash for her to flee a second time.

  After the call, Emma parked at Quindicott Pond to calm down and quickly read the book. Hours later, she returned to her apartment, and found the librarian brutally murdered. Emma had hired the woman through an Internet ad to help her catalog and sell the valuable Hudson book collection. Since the woman resided in Providence, she agreed to live with Emma while she worked.

  “I knew it was a case of mistaken identity. But was it the drug dealers I’d robbed? Had they finally tracked me down? Or was it the man I’d just spoken to? I didn’t have a clue, so I grabbed Yummy, took the librarian’s car and phone, and ran.”

  “Why did Dodger even have your diary?”