Find a place inside where there’s joy, and the joy will burn out the pain.
—Joseph Campbell
OH, SO NOW you want my help?
Several hours later, Jack’s tone was understandably peeved. When he finally awoke from his slumber, he found his Buffalo nickel on my dresser, and me vamoosed without it—and him.
You gonna tell me why?
“Why I left you behind?” I asked, pulling my car onto Cranberry Street.
I’m a gumshoe, sweetheart. I think I can guess that.
“Then you want to know why I came back for you?”
To be precise, after driving back from Boston, it was the Buffalo nickel I’d returned for, the same coin now cozily tucked in its little silk purse, and pinned once again to my underthings.
“It’s because I missed you.”
Of course you missed me! I know you by now, baby, better than you know yourself. My question is about our case. You remember? The dame who took a nosedive off her petrified balcony? Where are you driving us?
“1919 Pine Tree Avenue.”
The scene of the crime.
“Close.”
I need more than one piece of the puzzle, doll.
With Jack back on the case again, I took the length of our drive to paint him the bigger picture . . .
A FEW HOURS ago, I’d made the trip up to Boston with Spencer and Amy in the back seat. The traffic was light, and the kids behaved. Unfortunately, that was where my luck ran out.
No matter how much I argued, reasoned, and (as frustration set in) begged and pleaded with the seminar director, he refused to allow Spencer and Amy to return to campus for the remainder of the program.
“If it were up to me alone, Mrs. McClure, I’d acquiesce. Amy is an especially brilliant student, and the loss of her father is certainly a mitigating circumstance. But the rules are in place for legal reasons. Truancy at their age is serious business. If your son and Amy had gotten hurt or worse, our program would have faced heavy liabilities. Sorry. My hands are tied.”
A student assistant supervised Amy and Spencer as they packed up their belongings. Then, after a bite to eat at Spike’s Junkyard Dogs (Amy’s idea since they were her dad’s favorite), we piled back into my car.
By the time we were heading south to Quindicott, I realized I wasn’t all that upset about the situation. There was nothing more to be done, so why agonize over it? In the end, I came around to Jack’s way of thinking.
For weeks, Spencer had been looking forward to the seminar. He’d given up a lot to stand by his friend, and I knew why after overhearing some of the things he told her. The loss of his own father was something that still pained Spencer, and I realized that helping Amy through her grief was also helping my son.
I knew something about a child’s grief, too, and it wasn’t easily assuaged by grown-up rituals—formal prayers and services; carnations and flowers; verses of poetry and handfuls of dirt. A child’s loss was more basic, and I hoped we were taking good enough care of Amy.
I thought about her day, visiting her dad’s grave, laughing over memories of her father at Spike’s Junkyard Dogs—not unlike a wake—and now relaxing and laughing with a trusted friend.
That seemed like pretty good grief therapy to me.
Still, I hoped to find some time to speak with the girl alone, about her loss.
That very loss—her father’s tragic “accident” by the side of a road, with no car trouble and no witnesses—concerned me for another reason, and I planned to discuss it with Deputy Chief Franzetti when I got back to Quindicott.
As it turned out, I didn’t have to wait that long.
During a bathroom break at a roadside McDonald’s, I found a text from Eddie on my mobile:
Hudson’s alibi solid.
Checked it out myself.
As the kids shared an order of fries (at Amy’s special request) and played digital games on their phones, I stepped outside for privacy and quickly called my friend with the badge.
Eddie confirmed that Philip Hudson was in Providence at the time of his wife’s death. The proof was produced by his lawyer, along with a statement apologizing to Eddie and the Quindicott PD. Hudson claimed his lie about being in New York City was a protective measure.
“My client wishes his business in Providence to remain private,” the lawyer told Eddie. “If you need anything else from Mr. Hudson, you’ll have to request it through me, thank you.”
“And you believe all that?”
“When in doubt, verify,” Eddie said. “So, I called the Providence Hilton, where Philip Hudson supposedly stayed. It’s all confirmed, Pen, including security camera footage. Hudson spent the night and checked out around the time you called the chief to report his ex-wife’s death. He couldn’t have killed her.”
“By now, Eddie, I’m not all that surprised.”
“Why? You seemed so sure.”
“Evidence is mounting against another suspect, as painful as it is for me to admit. I have someone else in mind.”
“Anyone I know?” he asked warily.
“Whitman Brink.”
“Whit? The nice old guy who sells watercolors at flea markets? Pen, please don’t tell me you want me to charge him over a couple of baguettes and a box of cinnamon buns.”
“Hear me out, please? I have good reasons to suspect Brink.”
I told Eddie about my conversation with the man at the cemetery; his familiarity with Emma; and his appointment for dinner that night.
I also informed Eddie that Brink took courses taught by Kevin Ridgeway, who I now suspected was also involved in writing Shades of Leather.
“I think they collaborated on the book. It adds up with Mr. Brink’s newfound wealth—and Professor Ridgeway’s at the very same time. At the cemetery, I saw Mr. Brink’s expensive new car. He told me he’s moving to that luxury gated community on Larchmont. Where did that money come from?”
“Did he say where it came from?”
“A publishing venture.”
“And you believe that venture is cowriting Shades of Leather?”
I quickly reminded Eddie what happened in my bookstore just hours before Emma’s death. “She completely flipped out when she saw Jessica Swindell’s author photo. She claimed it was a photo of herself. Eddie, what if it was? What if her downstairs neighbor, Whitman Brink, fell in love with that sexy vintage photo, thinking it was the perfect way to help sell Jessica Swindell to the public? What if he snatched it when she wasn’t looking?”
Eddie took a breath. “You know what I’m going to ask next, right?”
“Right. How do we prove all this?”
“Exactly.” At the other end of the line, I heard a police radio squawking about a jackknifed trailer on 95. “When you have that figured out, give me a call back.”