by Cleo Coyle
“I gave it to him, Mrs. McClure. Before I faked my own death, I made him promise to turn it over to the police. Obviously, the worm never did. I suppose he didn’t want to take any risks. I never used his name in the diary. But, at the age I am now, I can see he was afraid of being recognized—and being made to answer for the way he took advantage of an underage girl the way he did.”
By now, I had guessed who the culprit was, but I needed this woman to say it. To say his name, out loud.
“Who was he, Emma?”
“I called him Dodger because it rhymed with his first name. In those days, he was a grad student in literature at a local university, on some kind of athletic scholarship. He graduated from Columbia and thought of himself as a tough guy because he was from New York. But he wasn’t tough at all, Mrs. McClure, not where it counted.”
Lit major. Columbia University. Athletic scholarship. Jack, I was right! It’s—
AHHHHH-CHOOOOO!
The dog allergy had gotten the better of Bentley Prize winner Dr. Roger Leeds. The tall man stood in the doorway, swiping at his runny nose with his right hand.
In his left, he held a gun.
CHAPTER 60
The Rat Came Back
Dogs never bite me—just humans.
—Marilyn Monroe
“ROGER DODGER.” EMMA grimaced. “I knew I should have bolted that door. What do you want from me?”
“You know. And it’s not to return that stupid diary.”
Emma lurched for her gun. But the move was desperate and clumsy, and she knocked it off the table. Rushing forward, Leeds quickly kicked her weapon into a hole in the floorboards.
Meanwhile, the room was becoming steadily colder, and the naked bulbs in the ceiling began to dim.
“A fire sounds about right, don’t you think?” Leeds said with a grim smile. “This place is a three-alarm blaze waiting to happen.”
Jack, what do I do?
Don’t break my concentration, doll. I’m working on it.
But we’re running out of time.
This guy loves to gas on. Get the blowhard to talk about how smart he is, and he’ll flap his gums till you’ll wish he’d just pull the trigger.
“How did you ever find us, Dr. Leeds?!”
“Genius, really. Before I paid Shirley a visit, I found your car behind your store and broke a taillight, so I could follow you after dark. That’s what I was waiting for. I intended to lure you onto the highway and run you off the road.”
“The way you killed Kevin Ridgeway?”
“Exactly. When you showed up at Shirley’s house, I waited in my car, outside the cul-de-sac, and followed you to that dump of a restaurant . . .”
We never saw him tailing us, Jack!
He’s no happy plumber, honey. This rat knows how to tail without getting made.
“Then I saw you heading to this godforsaken firetrap,” Leeds went on. “So I waited to see what would come of it. I thought maybe I could kill two problems in one night. I expected Professor Parker to show. This discovery is even better.”
Dr. Leeds sneezed again. “All right. Time for this to end. How about it, Stacy? One last dance . . .”
I could almost hear Waldo repeating the phrase as Leeds raised the gun, aiming it at Emma’s heart.
Jack! Do something!
Suddenly, the room dropped twenty degrees in temperature. It became so cold I could see my breath.
Then three things happened at once. The bay window exploded in a shower of glass as a man leapt through it.
A shot rang out.
And a rotting two-by-four flew out of a hole in the ceiling, knocking the gun out of Leeds’s hand.
Philip Hudson, entangled in the velvet curtains—after his leap through the window—took the bullet. It knocked him back a step, but it didn’t stop him, and the two men grappled.
The Yorkie barked madly as Emma held it back. I snapped up the fallen board and used it to smack Leeds in the back of the head. The professor pitched to the floor.
“Sic him, girl!” Emma cried.
For a split second, I thought the former dead teen was talking to me. Then I realized: It was the mailman’s scourge she’d commanded.
And Yummy obeyed.
With teeth bared, the tiny dog with the heart of a lion went for Leeds. The man on the ground howled as he tried to fend off the dog. But there was no stopping the little Yorkie. Growling, ripping, and tearing, Yummy had cornered her sneezing rat!
Hearing the shot, Brainert and Seymour burst through the door.
Realizing what had happened, they took their time pulling the vicious dog off the whimpering Leeds. I’m certain I saw a glint of pleasure in Brainert’s eyes as he helped Seymour hog-tie the Bentley Prize winner with the dog’s long leash.
“Sorry we’re late, Pen,” Seymour said. “Because of Brainert, we missed the turn.”
“You’re the nincompoop who can’t read a Google map!”
While the frenemies bickered, Philip Hudson’s eyes glazed and he sank to the floor. A tearful Emma rushed to her ex-husband.
“You brave, foolish man,” she sobbed, cradling Philip’s head.
Brave? The ghost chuckled. He was pumped up on the kind of courage that comes out of a bottle. But she’s right. It sure turns a man into a fool!
“I came to your rescue, darling, armed with my trusty flask!” Philip declared to Emma as he struggled to place the alcohol to his lips.
“He needs a doctor!” Emma cried.
“On it,” Seymour said, smartphone to his ear.
“Don’t worry, love. I can’t feel a thing,” Philip rasped.
Maybe not when you’re sloshed to the gills, hero. But you’ll be whistling a different tune once you dry out.
CHAPTER 61
Debriefing
The answer is always there. You just have to put it all together. Sometimes you need a little help.
—Sally Snoops and Her Curious Kitty: The Girl Who Was Lost and Found
“ONCE A WORM, always a worm,” Deputy Chief Franzetti said.
“Dr. Leeds?” I presumed.
Saturday meant cinnamon buns in Quindicott, and Eddie and I were sitting inside the Cooper Family Bakery, polishing off a few. We were alone—not literally, the place was as busy as ever. But Jack was out of the picture, still sapped by all the excitement from two nights ago.
“You would not believe the elaborate excuses and rationales Roger Leeds had for everything,” Eddie confessed. “He swore he had nothing to do with the attempted murder of Professor Parker. When we found the paint-stained van in his locked garage, Leeds insisted it had been planted there to incriminate him.”
“I guess we know how he got his nickname.”
Eddie sipped his coffee and nodded. “Leeds claimed he was ‘nowhere near’ Shirley Anthor’s home when she fell down the stairs, even though his mobile phone tells a different tale. He said he didn’t bring a gun to the beach house. That it was Philip Hudson’s gun—and Hudson attacked him—even though we have sworn statements to the contrary by you, Emma, and Philip. When I asked him why he was at the house in the first place, he claimed he was simply out for a walk and came upon the place.”
“What about Professor Ridgeway’s death?”
“He denied his involvement. So I showed him a picture of the broken taillight on Ridgeway’s car, and the Usher Security recording of Leeds breaking the taillight on yours.”
Eddie laughed, the way Jack does when he’s cornered some thug and is ready to dispense justice.
“Leeds was shocked by the recording. He didn’t realize there were any cameras around. But within two minutes he was claiming that the NSA or CIA was framing him. It only got crazier as the night went on. By the end of the interview, Leeds was ranting.”
Eddie fixed me with his gaze.
“I’ve heard the term psychopathic liar, but I had no experience with one until my evening with Roger Leeds.”
“So what do you think really happened?”
“It’s clear Leeds was desperate to turn that lurid diary into a novel. He has three ex-wives breathing down his neck for alimony, and he’s in deep trouble with the IRS. But Leeds discovered writing a novel wasn’t so easy, and he brought Professor Kevin Ridgeway aboard. Then Ridgeway found he needed help and hired your friend Brainert and Professor Shirley Anthor. After the book became a big bestseller, Ridgeway threatened to expose Leeds if he didn’t hand over more of the profits. In Leeds’s sick mind, poor Kevin had to die.”
“And Shirley?”
“You already told me she’d figured out Roger Dodger’s identity. That was reason enough to kill her. But I suspect she was pressuring Leeds for more money, too.”
“But why try to kill Brainert? He didn’t want money. And he didn’t have a clue Leeds was involved.”
“After Kevin Ridgeway’s death, Brainert was upset. He started asking questions at the university. Leeds figured it was only a matter of time before Brainert would start unearthing answers.”
“And how did Leeds know I was involved?”
Eddie lowered his voice. “It was Brainert, Pen. He showed up on campus the day after that van nearly killed him, talking about how you and Seymour were protecting him, and you were searching doggedly for the culprit behind the wheel.”
“So I had to die, too?”
“Roger Leeds was feeling big enough to roll over anyone he wanted. And, frankly, I think the man did so many drugs in his youth that it damaged his brain. He was becoming more unhinged and reckless as time went on. By the end, I think he was looking for excuses to kill people. It gave him a thrill. The way I look at it, Waldo the Parrot got off lucky.”
“You know, from the start, that talking bird tried to warn us. He gave a telltale phrase, but we didn’t listen.”
“How could you know the bird wasn’t spouting nonsense?” Eddie stretched his long legs and finished his coffee. “I mean, who listens to a parrot? You might as well talk to the dead.”
A chilly draft suddenly swept through the bakery, making the whole joint shiver. I simply smiled. By now, I was used to it.
“You know what, Eddie? You may have put the cuffs on the killer. But the parrot and a dead teen solved this case.”
Don’t forget Sally Snoops, sweetheart. She helped, too.
EPILOGUE
“We are the dead,” he said.
“We’re not dead yet . . .”
—Julia’s reply to Winston in George Orwell’s 1984
“LOOK, AN E-MAIL from Emma and Philip Hudson!” Sadie said.
I glanced up from refilling the Sally Snoops display at the front of the store. “Have they decided where they want to live yet? They’ve been dithering about it since they got remarried.”
“They’ve put aside thoughts of Seattle and decided on Hawaii,” Sadie read. “Now, they’re trying to decide which island.”
“I thought for sure they’d go back to California.”
Why be haunted by the ghosts of failures past? Jack whispered as a cool breeze caressed the nape of my neck. The lovebirds want a fresh start, and that means a fresh place to start.
You’re right, Jack. Just like your own case—and little Miss Moreland, the reform school girl turned publishing professional—they need to remake themselves.
It would be a long road to Philip’s recovery from his alcoholism, but Emma was now committed to walking every step of the way beside him, just as he’d hidden and protected her.
The man certainly had his faults, on that I could testify, but he had his virtues, too, enough for Emma (and me) to forgive him.
Unfortunately, Philip’s false identification of the librarian’s body was a crime the authorities refused to forgive. Lucky for him, the grand jury decided not to charge him with perjury, not after hearing his whole tearful story.
There was a final irony that Jack appreciated. Though Emma hadn’t been able to confirm the whereabouts of those drug dealers—the ones who would have taken vengeance on her—Eddie stepped up to investigate, using police resources. His conclusion: “Their last breaths were as spent as the money Stacy Baylor pinched to escape them.”
The bad guys were gone. As far as the world was concerned, Stacy was gone, too, nothing but a ghost of a story haunting Dead Teen Cove.
And Shades of Leather was complete fiction.
“Goodness!” Sadie clapped her hands. “Philip writes that he wants us to keep all the money from the sale of his book collection—as a thank-you for all you’ve done! His father’s inheritance finally came through. He says it’s more than enough for him and Emma and Yummy to lead a comfortable life.”
“And a calm one, I hope. Now that Emma has shaken her past, and the court has sealed her records.”
“And now that Philip has stopped drinking,” Sadie added. “That night at Chez Finch, I thought that man had a hollow leg!”
Ha! Your auntie’s pretty savvy, doll.
“Excuse me, Aunt Sadie, but if I remember correctly, you were in matchmaking mode that night.”
Sadie slipped off her glasses. “I thought you liked him, Pen. You seemed interested in everything Mr. Hudson had to say, and you asked so many questions—”
Jack? Should I tell her I was interrogating a suspect, not hunting for a potential boyfriend?
Nah, you don’t want to tip the old gal off. You might have to throw yourself at another suspect someday.
Hey! You know I didn’t “throw myself” at Philip—
Just then, deafening cheers erupted from our Community Events room. Whitman Brink had been talking about his Sally Snoops series to a packed house for the past two hours, with no end in sight. The last time I’d checked on things, Mr. Brink was posing for pictures, surrounded by a dozen adoring women.
When I’d scheduled this event, I’d figured on a modest audience of preteen girls, and there were plenty here. But at least half the attendees were women of a certain age, who’d read Sally’s adventures in their youth.
Soon after a burst of loud applause, Amy and Spencer emerged from the community room.
“What was that ruckus about?” Sadie asked.
“Mr. Brink read a chapter from his new Sally Snoops adventure, the one that’s going to be published soon,” Amy replied.
“But we already heard it,” Spencer noted. “He read it on NPR and Tina Talks, too.”
Amy checked Sadie’s computer screen. “Ugh, you’re processing returns again! Ms. Thornton, there’s got to be a smarter way to do business than wasting fossil fuels shipping books back and forth!”
“You’re a clever girl, Amy. Maybe you’ll finally figure out a solution to the problem that’s plagued this trade for decades.”
Jack moaned at Sadie’s words. This kid escaped academic prison to get to her pop’s funeral. Then she snuck a peek at his police file. A gal like that has my admiration. She’d be completely wasted shilling wood pulp and ink—just like you are, sweetheart.
“Thanks, Jack, but I’m perfectly happy giving new life to dead wood. And speaking of the dead—”
Hey! Whatever you do, baby, don’t speak ill of me . . .
Whether or not Amy Ridgeway transformed the book business, or enforced the law, I knew she’d have a bright future.
The legal dispute over the monies earned by Shades of Leather was solved in record time. With Shirley gone, and Brainert accepting a onetime contributor’s fee, Kevin Ridgeway’s daughter would be the primary beneficiary of all those royalties.
In the months since the settlement, Amy used her newfound financial (and emotional) clout to change some of her domestic rules, with Mother Bergen’s reluctant agreement. Among other things, gluten was a go, video games were permitted (f
or one hour after homework was done), and Amy was allowed to visit with us one weekend a month.
Roger “Dodger” Leeds was excluded from the settlement when it was revealed that he did absolutely nothing to create the novel beyond handing over Emma’s diary and a modest payment to Kevin Ridgeway. Leeds even considered the job of editor beneath him, which is why he convinced Ridgeway to bring Brainert aboard.
“Leeds was monumentally arrogant in his disdain for popular fiction,” Brainert told me later. “He thought he could toss off a potboiler and make a quick buck. But writing one wasn’t as easy as he thought.”
When news of the settlement was published in the trades, Sadie marveled at how quickly the legal quagmire was cleared up.
Jack and I weren’t surprised at all.
The cofounder and chairwoman of the board at Salient House stepped in personally to fix the problem. The esteemed elderly publisher, Mrs. Dorothy Moreland Macklin, was widely quoted in the company press releases.
Aw, well, Jack remarked, if anybody knows how to deal with a bogus bestseller, it’s little Miss Moreland.
Of course, the legal machinations exposed Brainert’s involvement with Shades of Leather. But the reaction from his peers was not what he expected—just as I told him. He should have had more faith.
Many of his colleagues, afraid to speak with a bully like Leeds dominating meetings and discussions, now expressed admiration for aspects of popular fiction, and for Brainert’s accomplishment.
Me? I was happy to see the last of Leeds, though that would take time since the man had become a local Internet sensation. Someone duped the security footage of the Bentley Prize winner breaking my taillight and made a meme out of it.
“Now, who could have done such a thing?” I wondered when I first saw it.
“Yes, who?” Brainert replied, none too convincingly.
I didn’t blame my old friend for the digital prank, given the awful red paint van incident and the years of literary bullying, not to mention Roger Dodger’s other crimes. And on the latter matter . . .
St. Francis University’s administration quickly detached the school from Professor Leeds. They mourned the loss of their literary light—and knew they had to find another, fast. Why not the man who helped write one of the most popular thrillers since the Millennium series? And behold, a new curriculum was born, one that focused on popular fiction, its rich history, its place in today’s culture, and how to write it.