When you get older, keeping the private stuff private seems less important.
—Lawrence Block
“MRS. MCCLURE? OFFICER Franzetti! To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Despite his polite greeting, Whitman Brink appeared anything but happy to find the law at his door. With a tense smile, he pulled at the edges of his open flannel shirt, trying to hide the paint-spattered tee underneath. But the frayed flannel was too tight around his middle to button, so he tugged on his sweatpants in a fruitless attempt to hide the holes in both knees.
Poor old guy, Jack muttered. Looks like he’s one step up from skid row. I’ve seen bums go down that ladder too many times.
Well, pay attention, I told the gumshoe, because Whitman Brink has reversed direction—and he might have killed his upstairs neighbor to keep the gravy train on track.
“May we come in, Mr. Brink?” Eddie asked. “I’d like to speak with you about Emma Hudson.”
Reluctantly, Brink stepped aside.
Yowza! Jack cried. Forget what I said about being one step above skid row. He’s there. Even I’d commit murder to get out of this dump!
“Sorry for the mess,” Brink said. “I’m moving in a few weeks, and the place is in chaos.”
True, there were boxes scattered about. But it was clear from his reddening cheeks the man was more embarrassed by the peeling wallpaper and stained carpeting. Even the furniture looked like it came from the estate of Miss Havisham.
“Let me move those,” Brink said, shifting a stack of watercolor canvases from the couch to a threadbare throw rug.
“Please, sit. Can I get you anything? Coffee, perhaps?”
“Nothing, thanks.” Eddie sank so deep into the sagging couch I feared he’d disappear.
I remained standing. While Eddie distracted Brink by peppering him with questions, I hunted for those first edition copies of Shades of Leather.
It was no easy task. Despite the shabby surroundings, Brink had a fine collection of books. It appeared he spent the bulk of any social security checks on reading matter. Hundreds of hardcovers, in mint condition, packed the shaky shelving in his cluttered living room.
As I scanned the titles, Eddie continued with his questions—
“You were supposed to have dinner with Emma the day she died.”
“That’s right. Emma and a friend.”
“A friend? So, this wasn’t a romantic dinner?”
Brink laughed. “Certainly not. Emma was an interesting woman, but we had little in common. Emma wished to introduce me to her friend because, like me, she was a booklover.”
“But you never met this other woman?”
“I never even found out her name.”
Unplug those ears, doll. The geezer just mentioned a mysterious dame.
I heard, Jack, but I’m more interested in finding proof that Brink is the mysterious dame named Jessica Swindell!
I hit the third wall before I located a copy of Shades of Leather. At last! I quickly pulled the bestseller down and flipped to the copyright page. Holding my breath, I scanned the tiny parade of numbers. When I saw the 6 at the end, my hopes deflated.
This edition wasn’t a first printing; it was a sixth. And the bookmark inside, promoting Professor Leeds’s upcoming appearance at our store, meant Mr. Brink bought it at Buy the Book.
If Brink had free author’s copies sent from the publisher, he wouldn’t have wasted money on purchasing one.
I released a frustrated sigh. So far, the only thing I discovered on this trip was what I already knew: Mr. Brink was a loyal customer.
Meanwhile, Eddie continued his questioning. “Did you ever meet Emma Hudson’s ex-husband?”
“Once, in passing. Philip seemed like a decent chap.”
A decent chap?! Jack boomed. Sure, if you’re partial to a degenerate boozehound and Ollie the Octopus wrapped up in one cuddly ball.
Quiet, Jack, I’m listening.
“Did Mrs. Hudson feel that her ex-husband was a decent chap?”
“She seemed fond of him. But she told me she’d grown impatient with his overindulgence in alcohol and reckless business ventures.”
Eddie made a noise, like a low grunt, and I knew he was considering my warning about Philp Hudson’s possible involvement with the mob.
“What sort of business ventures did Mr. Hudson pursue? Do you know?”
“Let me see . . .” Mr. Brink stroked his gray goatee. “Emma mentioned he opened a surf shop when they lived in Venice Beach. Then there was a mountain bike rental company. After that he invested in a bungee jumping operation and a water park start-up that never materialized due to California’s drought.”
“Not very lucky, was he?”
Mr. Brink shrugged. “From what Emma told me, these ventures were mostly financed by her money, and every one of them failed. In the end, she grew weary of Philip and suggested, when they moved east, that they go their separate ways . . .”
As Mr. Brink continued answering Eddie’s questions, I froze solid, in complete shock. Housed here on these shaky old bookshelves was a pristine collection dedicated to the yellow-haired, big-glasses icon of my childhood, Sally Snoops and Her Curious Kitty by beloved author Patti Jo Penrod.
Before anyone had heard of Goosebumps, the “spooky, kooky Sally Snoops” completely dominated the children’s book trade.
I started reading the series near the end of its run, as a little girl. I cherished each adventure, and bought or borrowed every one I could lay my hands on. But soon they just disappeared—the first loss of many I would experience as a child.
Even today, the Sally Snoops books were difficult to find. Neither Sadie nor I had ever come across a complete set. Now, here I stood, staring at an entire shelf packed with multiple copies of all seventy-six titles!
Stop gaping at the pretty paper and pay attention! Jack cried.
Okay, okay!
“Your landlord told me you were out painting when Mrs. Hudson died,” Eddie was saying. “Is that correct?”
“Actually, no. I was with a Mr. Clark, over at Stuckley Motors, from about ten in the morning until late afternoon. I took my time at the lot. Over lunch, we discussed financing, but I decided to pay cash.”
Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Cash? For a used car?”
“Cash for a brand-new car. I’ve come into some money, you see.”
“From what, may I ask?”
Brink stiffened, his tone turning indignant. “I’m sorry, Officer, but I don’t see how my finances are pertinent to your investigation. I’m happy to help you with what I know about Emma Hudson and her life, but the business of my own is none of yours.”
Hey, dollface, Jack snapped. You payin’ attention? Mr. Brink is on the brink of tossing the copper out. You better step up your dance before this melody ends.
Jack was right. I saw no other copies of Shades of Leather, not in this room, anyway. I would have to think fast, find a way to lead the man back to a friendlier frame of mind. Remembering our chat at the cemetery, I pointed to the Sally Snoops books.
“Excuse me for interrupting, Mr. Brink, but may I ask you about this wonderful collection?”
Still frowning, Mr. Brink dragged his angry blue gaze away from Eddie. “What do you wish to know?”
“Did these Sally Snoops books belong to your daughter?”
At the mention of his lost child, Mr. Brink’s harsh expression softened. “In a way, Mrs. McClure, I wrote them to entertain my daughter during her long illness.”
“You mean you read them to entertain her.”
“No. I wrote them.”