A good love story always keeps the pot boiling.
—James Patterson
SEYMOUR TARNISH ROSE and faced the group. He’d set his phone aside for a copy of Shades of Leather, plumed with multi-colored Post-it notes.
“Pen asked me to give this book a close read with an eye for unmasking the identity of its author. Could it be someone local? Did this person have ties to Emma Hudson—perhaps use an old photo without her permission? These are the questions I kept in mind as I turned page after page after page after—”
“Get on with it!” Bud griped.
You tell him, Gramps! Jack cheered in my head.
“So, you might ask, what is this book about?” Seymour opened to the flap copy. “Minus the publishing hyperbole—okay, maybe a little publishing hyperbole—Shades of Leather is the story of lovely and innocent Justine, who sells high-end furniture to a rich clientele in an exclusive Manhattan shop.
“Enter a handsome, mysterious, and wealthy customer seeking an Italian leather couch. The charismatic Lyon Cage quickly ensnares young Justine in his quest for, and I quote, ‘perfect leather and much, much more!’
“The enigmatic Mr. Cage purchases one leather couch after another, seducing Justine on each one in new and kinky ways. When each lovemaking session ends, Lyon has that couch hauled away. And Justine is called upon to provide a new one.”
This all sounds very . . . uplifting, Jack said with a laugh.
“The final paragraph of the flap copy reads, ‘During Justine’s erotic journey, she is drawn into a mysterious underworld of crime and corruption. She witnesses puzzling events, encounters sinister and dangerous people, and uncovers a deadly secret that changes her world forever.’”
“Sounds like your standard pulp potboiler,” Bud Napp remarked.
“Think so?” Seymour pulled one of the Post-its loose. “Here is what one reviewer had to say, and I quote: ‘This novel is chock-full of highly charged eroticism and violence worthy of the Marquis de Sade.’”
“See, they hated it,” Bud declared.
“Nope, they loved it. This is a starred review!”
Bud shook his head. “I guess I missed that course in school on appreciation of erotic violence.”
“So,” Seymour said, dropping the book (all six hundred pages of it) on an empty seat with an echoing thud, “who here has actually read Shades of Leather?”
There was a little bit of nervous tittering, and Brainert shifted uncomfortably. Finally, Dan Donavon raised his pink, pudgy hand.
“My wife read me the racy stuff. But I think she was just angling for a new couch.”
“I read it,” Fiona said. “A young couple stayed at my inn two weeks back. They left behind a well-used copy, and a couch with broken springs. Naturally, I was curious.”
“Naturally,” Seymour echoed and shot me a glance. “I hope old Barney’s holding up better than that couch.”
“I heard that,” Fiona sniffed. “I’m sorry I mentioned it!”
“Aw, don’t be,” Milner Logan told her with a wink. “Linda read it, and it gave her some great ideas. I didn’t read it myself, you understand, but watching Sports Night on the couch is a whole lot more fun—ouch!”
Linda not so gently elbowed her husband into silence.
“I read one of the couch scenes to Bud,” Sadie said with a sly smile. “He was so rattled he needed a second beer.”
Ann Schram, the soft-spoken owner of the town’s new flower shop, actually spoke up. “I didn’t read it, but I will now.”
I knew Joyce Koh had read it—she bought her copy at my store. But I understood her reluctance to mention it in front of her conservative father.
“We know Leo Rollins didn’t read it,” Seymour said. “Though it looks like he’s reading it now.”
“Huh? Were you talking to me?” Leo asked, tearing his eyes away from the open book.
“Of course, Shades of Leather isn’t that original,” Seymour said. “It’s basically just a retelling of the French fairy tale ‘Bluebeard.’”
“There are other versions of this story?” Linda asked.
“Why? You want to read those, too? I don’t think our old couch can take it.” Milner’s offer was answered by another jab to the ribs.
“There’s a German version by the Brothers Grimm,” Seymour supplied. “It’s called ‘The Robber Bridegroom.’”
“That’s also the title of a Eudora Welty story,” Brainert finally offered, his academic instincts overriding his obvious reluctance to speak on this subject. “Welty’s story is loosely based on Grimm, but it’s set in Mississippi.” The professor smiled for the first time that evening, satisfied he’d one-upped his frenemy. “I just thought since Shades of Leather is a novel, I would expect a novelistic inspiration—not an obscure fairy tale.”
Joyce Koh spoke up. “I’m sorry, but I don’t get how Shades of Leather is like a fairy tale. Can someone explain?”
“Sure, I will!” Seymour said, beating Brainert to the literary lecture. “You see, in ‘Bluebeard’ there’s a magical key and a secret underground chamber filled with dead brides, whereas in Shades there’s a secret combination to a Stanley padlock and a backyard burial ground packed with burned-out couches.”
Leo Rollins looked up from the book and stroked his beard. “So, this woman rewrote a fairy tale to make it dirty? ’Cause it’s real dirty.”
Seymour ahemmed. “I prefer the term erotic, or perhaps suggestive—except the writing actually describes what it suggests.”
“I’ll say.” With that, Leo returned to the book.
“There’s a little more to Shades than trashy salaciousness,” Seymour continued. “There are subplots and side stories involving shady characters and weird events.”
“You mean the boring plotty parts,” Linda said.
“For instance, there’s a cabal of international arms dealers and drug traffickers planning a coup in some unnamed Central American country. They throw elaborate Manhattan parties that attract young women like the heroine Justine. There’s a jealous suitor who murders his romantic rival before Justine’s eyes; not to mention a corrupt politician doing business over the phone with the New England mob while he’s literally in bed with the heroine. I won’t name names, but that mob character sounds an awful lot like a real-life, now-deceased Mafia don from the 1970s. And, of course, there’s Lyon Cage, the enigmatic, couch-seducing Bluebeard of the story.”
“But all that stuff is kind of dull compared to the main story,” Fiona said.
Seymour smirked. “Kind of dull compared to the kinky stuff, you mean?”
“Those sections do seem forced,” Sadie agreed. “Almost as if they were part of a different novel. Some moralistic fable about old money, international crime, and political corruption.”
“Harold Robbins meets Fear of Flying, right? Well, that is my point, which I’ll get to in a moment.” Seymour paused. “Does anyone remember a novel called Naked Came the Stranger?”
Only a grinning Sadie raised her hand.