—Ed Exley on Lynn Bracken, L.A. Confidential by James Ellroy, 1990
I PUT THE call through to Shelby Cabot’s room at Finch’s Inn. After five rings, I heard Shelby fumble for the receiver and manage a tired “Hello?”
Double murder, it seems, can take a lot out of a gal.
“Ms. Cabot, this is Penelope Thornton-McClure.” My voice actually sounded steady despite the fist that would not stop squeezing my stomach. “I’m sorry to bother you, but something urgent has come up.”
“Mrs. . . . McClure?” Shelby said through a yawn. I could hear the rustle of Fiona’s silk sheets. “What time—”
“I found something in the store,” I said. “I believe it belongs to you.”
“I’m so sorry, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied, wide awake now. The woman’s condescending tone had regained consciousness as well, “I’m certainly not aware of losing anything. Describe it,” she snapped, “would you?”
Drop the bomb, Jack said in my head.
“It’s an item you left here on the night Timothy Brennan died. I’m sure it was what you came here to look for last night. You seemed so upset, and I did want to help you, but Mr. Franken arrived and—well, I’d wanted to speak to you privately.”
There was a long pause. Jack nudged me. Go on, doll, you’re doing fine.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said with feigned bafflement. “I must be mistaken. I wanted to help, you understand? But this medical item probably belongs to someone else. I feel so silly . . . I’m so sorry to have bothered you.”
“No, no, Mrs. McClure, I’m glad you called. As you know, I’m here to represent the interests of Salient House—and under the most unusual circumstances!”
Shelby was trying hard to sound cheerful. But even over a phone line, I could sense the strain. She let out a little laugh, but the edge of it seemed raw, like a section of scraped flesh with its nerve endings exposed.
“Timothy Brennan was one of our authors, a member of our publishing family. If this call involves the late Mr. Brennan or Salient House in any way, then I’ll be glad to come over and settle this matter right away.”
“Very good,” I said. “Shall we say fifteen minutes?”
“I . . . I may need more time. And I’d like to first ask you—”
Hang up fast, barked Jack.
“Fifteen and not a minute less or I’ll be closed.” I hung up before Shelby could make another peep.
Good job, babe. Now set the scene.
I did what Jack instructed, turning out all the store’s interior illumination except for the security lights and fire exit signs.
Drunk tanks, interrogation rooms, and jail cells are grim for a reason, Jack told me. Make this place dark as a dungeon. Pump some fright into her.
Nature was cooperating. Outside, the night was moonless, and leftover clouds from last night’s storm obstructed the usual burgeoning firmament. At this late hour on a Sunday, Cranberry Street was deserted, all the shop windows dark. I stood near the front door, peering through the glass. Behind me, the interior of Buy the Book seemed lost in a pall of shadows.
“Shelby wanted more time to dress,” I whispered very softly, so close to the glass my breath was making fog. “Why did you make me tell her fifteen minutes or not at all? What’s the point of rushing her?”
The time really doesn’t matter. What does is that you set this parley on your turf, on your terms, and at your convenience. You woke her up in the middle of the night—she’s disoriented, her judgment’s bad. Right now she’s stumbling down Cranberry Street, wondering why she’s out in the middle of the night in the first place.
She’s out there because you, Penelope, are pulling her strings like a puppetmaster. You’ve already taken control of the grilling session, and she hasn’t even arrived yet.
I blinked. What Jack said about “control” was pretty funny, considering I felt completely out of control right now. But I had to admit, his interrogation techniques impressed me. They were nothing like the stuff I usually saw on television cop shows, where good-cop/bad-cop was often the extent of the strategy. That game wouldn’t do me much good tonight. Sure, I could act the part of the marshmallow—but my hard-nosed counterpart was going to be out of sight if not completely missing in action.
“What next?” I silently asked.
Perps are all different, said Jack. And different things get under their skins. Degradation worked on Nazi officers when we had to break them during the war. We tore off their medals and insignias, stripped them of their uniforms—even their skivvies. Butt-naked, even storm troopers lose their swagger.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Jack, but I’m not ripping Shelby’s clothes off when she comes through the door.”
Too bad for me.
“Get on with it, Jack.”
Play off her prejudices. Judging from her treatment of you, Shelby pretty much thinks you’re a doormat—a dopey dime-store hick. So act like one. Play the dull sap and she’ll get blabby, thinking it won’t matter ’cause you’re just a dump chump waiting for the bump.
“Huh?”
Forget it.
Actually, Jack’s words—the part before dump, chump, and bump, anyway—did make sense. Burying one’s light under a bushel was the biblical phrase. It was the tactic I used during those difficult years in New York City—at the office and in my marriage: unquestioning deference to authority allowing conniving competitors and in-laws to take their worst sniping slices out of my flesh without saying a word back. That was me, all right. I told myself it was the right thing to do, the best way to evade the ugliness of confrontation, and to avoid bruising the fragile egos of my superiors, my husband, and my in-laws. I never set out to become a doormat in the process. But obviously I had.
Keep things in balance, doll, Jack said, breaking into my thoughts. Doormats don’t raise a kid solo, and they don’t take risks to save a relative’s failing business. You’re no bum taking a dive. You got the will, all right, and the heart, you just never had the means—or more like the meanness.
I wanted to reply, but Shelby Cabot was suddenly in front of me, just beyond the pane, her features pinched and pale under newly applied makeup, her short, raven hair scraped back into a tight ponytail. I opened the door and held it. She pushed past me fast, her eyes avoiding mine.
The door closed and I turned. Shelby stripped off her raincoat and draped it over a display. Under the Burberry, she wore dark tailored slacks and a cashmere sweater.
“Now Mrs. McClure,” she said. “I’m here. Whatever is this about?”
Shelby Cabot’s condescending tone made me want to shrink away under the counter, but I thought of my son and put on the mask.
“I’m so glad you came tonight, Shelby . . . may I call you Shelby? Good. And you can call me Pen. That’s what my friends call me, and I do consider us friends.”
Shelby’s brow furrowed. Good. She was obviously hoping to intimidate me, aiming to take control through her superior demeanor. My sudden shift to cheerful, friendly friend seemed to throw her off balance.
Now get going with the dumb hick act, advised Jack. Really start yammering. Talk her ear off, but don’t give her a chance to peep until she’s practically itching to shoot off her mouth, too.
“I just didn’t know what to do at first,” I babbled. “I found this strange thing, and I didn’t know what it meant or where it came from! Then I was watching the news with my aunt—you know my aunt, Sadie—and I saw the most disturbing thing . . .”
My words came faster than the side-effects list on a commercial for prescription antidepressants. And Shelby Cabot’s head was bobbing like a dashboard puppy’s.
“I saw that Mrs. Franken had been arrested by the police for killing her father!” I continued. “You did hear that, didn’t you? Well, that’s such a strange thing to happen in a town like this, and what I found was strange, too, so I thought maybe because both things were so . . . so—”
“Strange
.”
“Yes—strange—that maybe these two things were somehow connected. And then there was that hit-and-run—”
Shelby’s eyebrow went up. “Hit-and-run?”
“Right here in front of the store. But that couldn’t really be connected with anything, now, could it?”
“I suppose not, Mrs. McClure. You said—”
“I found a strange thing? I most certainly did!”
“Where is it, then?” Shelby asked, her tone impatient.
“Where’s what?” I asked blankly.
Pouring on the syrup a little thick, doll.
“Oh, you mean that thing!” I exclaimed. “Well, I guess I thought it best to leave it where I found it. . . .”
As my voice trailed off, I watched Shelby carefully.
You do scatterbrained swell, said Jack. Just like Gracie Allen.
I wasn’t quite sure whether to take that as a compliment.
After a moment, Shelby squinted at me, as if she couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or disgusted. Then with the flourish of a woman completely confident in her superiority, she turned on her heel and swiftly walked back to the community events space, straight to the women’s room.
Jackpot, baby. She’s going for it.
I followed right behind. “I mean it was such a strange thing. So very strange!” Now I was Doris Day. “A strange, strange thing . . .”
Shelby charged right into the bathroom. I entered, too, squinting against the fluorescent glare. Without hesitating, she went right for the paper towel dispenser anchored to the wall. She popped open the cover and reached inside, behind the large roll. She felt around for a moment but came up empty.
Bingo, said Jack. That’s exactly where Josh Bernstein found the syringe.
“Oh,” I said, wringing my hands. “Silly me. You’re looking for it there. I moved it the other day. Put it in a safe place.”
“But I thought—”
Before Shelby could say another word, I spun on my heels and rushed out of the women’s room, my nerves shaking as I raced through the large community events space and toward the register counter.
“Safe place!” I called. “Right over here!”
I exhaled with relief when I’d finally made it to the designated spot. Shelby took the bait. She was right on my heels.
“Where did you put the syringe, Penelope?” she said. Her voice was no longer arrogant. It was low and harsh. Ugly. Threatening.
I turned to face her, my hands no longer flapping, my tone no longer flighty. I forced my gaze to lock evenly with hers.
“Why Shelby, I never said it was a syringe.”
Shelby blinked. Her confident mask faltered. I took a step toward her. She backed away.
“How many bottles did you contaminate with the nut extract?” I asked. “One or two? Or all of them?”
Shelby took another step back. Then she raised her chin and looked down her nose at me.
“Enough,” she replied. “I almost laughed out loud when you personally handed him one of the tainted bottles.” Then Shelby frowned, her eyes distant. “But I used a little too much peanut oil, I’m afraid. Salient House lost a very profitable author. But then, they were going to lose him anyway.”
You nailed her, kid, now keep her yammering, get her to finger lover boy. Confess to being in on Josh’s murder.
Shelby looked at me. “You probably won’t believe this, but I didn’t mean to kill Timothy Brennan. I only wanted to make him sick, too sick to make his asinine announcement—”
“About dropping the Shield series?”
“That franchise was just starting to pay off again. Even the backlist was moving. It would have been such a blow to my company—”
“To Kenneth, you mean, since it was Kenneth Franken who actually wrote those last three Jack Shield novels. The franchise was a success because of Kenneth’s ghostwriting work. And that’s who you really cared about, wasn’t it?”
More of Shelby’s composure melted.
Remember, said Jack. Poke a few holes in her armor and she’ll deflate like a balloon.
“How did you find out about Kenneth’s ghostwriting?” Shelby demanded.
“I can read, Shelby. And so can a lot of other people. I saw how he’d mined The Neglected to jump-start the Jack Shield series again. But it was only a matter of time before someone else—someone in the press—made the connection and figured out that the last three novels were ghostwritten, especially with Kenneth Franken accompanying Brennan on his author tour.”
I watched Shelby’s wincing reaction.
“Oh, I get it now. Bringing Franken along was your idea, wasn’t it? So you’d have a stand-in waiting in the wings when Timothy Brennan collapsed. You were just waiting to drag Kenneth Franken in front of a microphone and reveal to the world that he really wrote those last three books, weren’t you?”
“Kenneth is weak,” said Shelby. “He refused to stand up to his father-in-law. Refused to promote himself and his writing. He’s a literary genius, so he’s far too sensitive when it comes to these things. It’s a tough business. He doesn’t understand how tough.”
“I see. So you graciously stepped in, because Kenneth needed someone with brains to manage his career. Someone like you. And Josh Bernstein? How did he fit into all this? Why did he have to die?”
“Josh was always ambitious,” Shelby replied. “But not smart. He figured out that Kenneth and I—well, you know what he figured out. That was bad enough, but he wouldn’t stop there.”
“He saw you tampering with the water bottles that night and then rush into the women’s room,” I guessed. “He knew you hid something in there.”
“I tried to distract him, sent him off on that fool’s errand for throat spray. But it didn’t work.”
“So Josh was never part of your plan.”
“He had plans of his own. Blackmail. I told him I’d meet his demands if he planted the syringe in Deirdre’s luggage. He did as he was told, but poor Josh met with an accident before I could return the favor. Not my fault.”
My eyes drifted to the floor. Then I smiled. Shelby must be running out of clothes, because she was wearing the same shoes she’d had on earlier—I could see the brick-red mud from Embry’s lot still on them.
“You were the one who stole the truck,” I said as soon as the realization came. “You were the one who ran Josh down.”
Shelby smiled, tight-lipped. In the dim light, with her hair raked back, her face resembled a skull. “You think you know a lot—”
“For a small-bookstore owner?”
“And as a small-bookstore owner, Mrs. McClure, you ought to know exactly what you’re messing with when you mess with me. Salient House is the largest publisher of fiction in the English-speaking world. How long would your little independent bookstore survive without access to novels by Maxwell Cushing, Louise Harper Mars, Anne Wheat, and all the other big best-sellers we publish, along with their backlists? You don’t have a syringe. You don’t have anything. And if you make a nasty accusation you can’t prove, I’ll make sure Salient House sees you as a bad risk and cuts you off—completely!”
I shrugged. “Well, Ms. Cabot, I admit that losing George Young as a sales rep would be sad, but we’d simply place our order through Ingram. Or Baker and Taylor. As an independent store, Salient House can’t very well tell those independent distributors who to sell to. And if they tried, let me see now—what would our hick-town lawyer call that? Restraint of trade, maybe?”
Shelby was fast losing her composure. Her empty threats weren’t scaring the chick from the sticks. She glared at me, looking trapped.
Time to pull the trigger, toots. She still hasn’t spilled her guts.
“So how could you do it, Shelby? Murder? Double murder? Is Kenneth Franken really worth it? You must really love him.”
Shelby’s brow furrowed; her lips slightly quivered.
“That’s none of your business,” cried Shelby. “Just tell me what you want. I’m sure we
can come to some sort of arrangement.”
Keep goring the bull, babe.
“Shelby, isn’t the real question: Does Kenneth love you? I mean, if he really loved you, then why is he in Providence right this minute, trying to find a lawyer for his wife? And not with the woman who murdered for him?”
This is it. She’s going to finger Franken as her accomplice .
“He’ll come around,” Shelby said through clenched teeth. “He loved me once. He’ll love me again. Once he sees what I’ve done for him. Once I tell him. And I will, after his wife’s good and convicted.”
I did my best to maintain my composure, but I couldn’t help at least blinking in surprise. “You mean it’s over? Between you and Kenneth?”
“Not over. Just interrupted. He pretends to love his wife, but I know how he really feels—about her. About me.” Shelby’s eyes became glassy, creepy. “You’re just like Kenneth,” she rasped. “You eat the sausage but you don’t have a clue what it takes to kill the pig. I used my networking contacts to introduce Kenneth to the right people, in New York and in Hollywood. He has an agent now. Because of me. He’s in negotiations with Visionwerks to write a feature film because of me—”
“But the film deal is based on the Jack Shield novels, isn’t it?” I pointed out. “And Timothy Brennan was the one who controlled all the rights? So his consent would be needed for any film deal to be made.”
“Brennan was an egomaniac. And he’d become lazy. He didn’t want to write the books anymore, but he wanted to take the credit and most of the money. And then he became angry—and jealous—that the books Kenneth wrote were so much better, so much more popular, than his own.”
“So that’s why Brennan was ending the series,” I guessed. “He didn’t want his son-in-law—the high-and-mighty ex-college professor—to show him up.”
“He was a stupid old bastard!” said Shelby. “All Brennan had to do was keep his mouth shut and let the Hollywood deal go through. Everything would have been fine! Brennan would have made lots of money, and Kenneth would have started a new career on the West Coast—far from Brennan and that doggy-faced wife of his.”
The Ghost and Mrs. McClure Page 19