An idea, like a ghost, must be spoken to a little before it will explain itself.
—Charles Dickens
I WAS CERTAIN I’d misheard the man. Either that or my elderly customer was delusional. So I tried again—
“Mr. Brink, surely you’re not telling me that you are the author of Sally Snoops and Her Curious Kitty?”
“All seventy-six titles, Mrs. McClure, plus two that were never published.”
“I always thought a woman wrote them.”
“Of course you did. Everyone did. That was by design.”
“You mean there isn’t a real Patti Jo Penrod?” The man really must be delusional, I told Jack. I know very well there was!
“Miss Penrod was an elderly secretary at my series’ publishing house. She posed as the author for personal appearances. I allowed that ruse because the royalties were high. And my daughter required almost constant care, so there was no way I could write the books and promote them, too.”
As he spoke, he rose to retrieve two items, a framed photo and a polished wooden plaque. The frame held a picture of Mr. Brink in a tux, sitting beside Miss Penrod at a formal ceremony. The plaque was a children’s book award for one of my favorite Sally Snoops adventures: The Disappearing Dinosaur Bones.
“I’m very proud of this award. I consulted with paleontologist Bob Bakker to get the details right. Good man. He advised the artist, too.”
Finally, I believed him.
Mr. Whitman Brink, one of my most unassuming customers, was the beloved creator of one of my favorite story characters from childhood. Jack, I wish you were more than a ghost, so you could pick me up off the floor!
With almost little-girl excitement, I clapped my hands. “Mr. Brink, I have to tell you how much I enjoyed the books you wrote. Sally was like a best friend to me. I absolutely loved her!”
“You and a million other little girls. But there was only one fan I cared about.”
“Your daughter.”
With a forlorn smile, he nodded. “Lilly was sick for five years. During that time, I wrote one novel every two months—cancer is expensive, you see, and I needed money. But she was enchanted by the stories, and that drove me, too. My Lilly was the first person to read every adventure, and she lived to see thirty of the Sally Snoops books published. After she was gone, I kept the series going in her honor. I suppose it was my way of coping with the loss.” Mr. Brink paused and swallowed. “The books kept her alive for me a little longer . . .”
Seeing the pain in his expression, I offered my condolences. So did Eddie. “I’m a father, too, sir. I can’t imagine going through what you did.”
After a respectful pause, I couldn’t help asking, “Why did you ever stop writing the books? Was the series canceled?”
Whitman Brink harrumphed. “It was never canceled, Mrs. McClure. The books were selling, but the publisher was poorly managed, and the company went bankrupt.”
“You didn’t try to publish the series elsewhere?”
“I had too many other problems. My wife’s grief overwhelmed her. She began to drink and abuse her medications. I tried my best to save her, but she eventually perished from a fatal combination of barbiturates and whiskey.”
Exhaling heavily, the big man’s shoulders sank.
“The sad truth is I didn’t have the rights to those books, or even the character I created. I was desperate for funds and signed a very bad contract. After the company went under, the rights were tied up with the bankruptcy. No one could legally publish Sally Snoops for decades, not until now.”
“That’s your publishing venture?”
I closed my eyes with relief. When I opened them again, I exchanged glances with Eddie. He simply shrugged.
“It took me twenty-five years, but now the rights to all the Sally Snoops belong to me. Academy Books, the big children’s publisher, is reprinting the originals, along with the two unpublished works, and I’m writing new adventures starting next year.”
Cri-ma-nee! Jack groused. This burg is full of scribblers. How is it you can’t finger the right one?
Me? What about you? I challenged. You’re the professional!
Try to remember that the next time you want to leave me at home playing kiddie games. You better make sure I tag along from now on, Penny, or you’re liable to forget your own name.
“As I said before, Mrs. McClure, I’m far from the new Tom Clancy, but at my age I take literary fame where I find it.” Brink put his index finger to his lips. “Please. Tell no one. Academy plans an official announcement very soon, and I don’t wish to steal their thunder. That’s why I was so reticent to speak about it at the cemetery.”
There was an irony here that Jack appreciated. I arrived suspecting Whitman Brink of murder. Now I was offering the man my sincere congratulations, and gushing about his work like a complete fangirl.
Serves you right for suspecting this dignified old gent.
Really, Jack, now he’s a “gent”? That’s a far cry from your “geezer” ready for “skid row.”
That’s because I no longer suspect the man of tossing a dame off a balcony.
Well, I couldn’t be happier to be wrong. Though now I’m out of suspects.
Jack laughed. People are no good. You’ll never run out of suspects.
Before I said good-bye to Mr. Brink, I made a point of inviting him to appear at Buy the Book for a special talk and signing, whenever his new Sally Snoops books became available.
“Really, Mrs. McClure? You think people around here will show up to hear me speak—and sign kiddie books?”
“I absolutely do!”
“You know, I attend all your author events . . .” Emotion entered Mr. Brink’s deep voice, and his bright blue eyes began to glisten. “For a time, your bookshop was about the only thing keeping this lonely old man from sitting at home and staring at walls.”
“Sadie and I always appreciate seeing you at our store. And we’d be honored to host your appearance.”
“Goodness, Mrs. McClure, you overwhelm me . . .” Pausing to look away, he deftly swiped a tear. “I assure you, the honor will be mine.”
OUTSIDE AGAIN, IN the brisk, fresh air, I said good-bye to Officer Franzetti, apologizing the whole time.
“Don’t worry about it,” Eddie said, before driving off. “That’s police work, lots of dead ends—and, hey, I did get some good background for the file.”
I was about to start my own car when my phone vibrated. I tensed, fearing it was another text from Amy’s mother, who managed to be both an absentee and a helicopter parent.
With relief, I saw this message was from Seymour Tarnish.
Congrats, Pen U were correct!
The author of Shades of Leather is a local, and I know who. Someone we both know.
For once I was ahead of Seymour—no mean feat, considering our postman was locally famous for being a past champion on Jeopardy!
Though Mr. Brink turned out to be a “dead end,” as Eddie put it, the evidence still held up for Professor Ridgeway’s involvement, given the first editions of Shades in his possession and the text message he’d sent to his daughter before his death. I only hoped Seymour found a way to prove it.
With a feeling of reassurance about this new development—and a literary one, at that—I headed back to my bookshop.