Very few of us are what we seem.
—Agatha Christie
LYING IN BED that night, my heart was still pounding.
My friends and I had uncovered a shocking secret about the most talked-about book in the country. Shades of Leather, a supposed work of fiction, wasn’t fiction, not entirely, anyway. An old diary of Emma Hudson’s had served as the basis for the tale.
Come on, sweetheart, there’s a bigger shock than that behind your bogus bestseller.
The cool whisper of Jack’s arrival gave me a shiver.
“You’re talking about Emma’s murder?”
How many authors do you know who toss the subject of their book over a balcony?
“None, and that’s the problem. The most important piece of this puzzle is still missing.”
The piece with the killer’s name on it.
“And other pieces, too, ones that might help us see the whole picture. Like why did Emma move to California and lie about her past?”
That’s not a hard nut to crack.
“True. Lots of women make changes in their lives, start over someplace new.”
“Make changes”? Jack snorted. You still don’t get it, do you?
“Get what?”
Lots of Do-Right Janes start over, sure. You did it yourself, when you moved back here to Cornpone-cott. But you never lied about your past, did you? You never tried to cover it up.
“No . . .” I said, stifling a yawn. “Why would I?”
You would if you had something to hide.
“And what did Emma have to hide?”
When I was workin’ the meanest streets of Manhattan, as a flatfoot and then as a gumshoe, I only knew one kind of bird who wanted to erase her past—a jailbird.
“Jailbird . . .”
I repeated the word. It knocked around my brain until my eyes drifted closed.
I WAS NO longer in my quiet bedroom, snoring the night away. I was back on that crowded Manhattan sidewalk, traffic horns blaring as I faced down a car the size of a freight train.
In crippling heels and a long, tight skirt, running wasn’t an option. Before I even tried, a strong arm circled my waist and yanked me into a doorway.
The thug behind the wheel was forced to turn, missing us by a hair. Then the DeSoto veered off the sidewalk, clipping a fire hydrant as it bounced into the street and sped away.
For a moment, my body went limp. When I came to, I found myself looking into Jack’s steel gray gaze. His face was so close to mine I could feel his breath on my cheek.
“Where am I?” I sputtered.
“Exactly where I want you, baby. In my arms—minus that horrified look on your face.”
“Sorry, Jack, but my heart is pounding!”
“Don’t worry, doll. I got the universal cure for that.”
“What is it?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “A good stiff one.”
TEN MINUTES LATER, I accepted the glass of Scotch from Jack’s rough hands.
“You’re still shaking, sweetheart. Better shoot it.”
Throwing back my head, I swallowed the amber liquid and squeezed my eyes shut, figuring if the burning liquor didn’t wake me from this dream, nothing would. But when I opened my eyes again, I was still in a smoky, dimly lit, oak-lined gin joint, circa 1947.
No ESPN playing here, just a radio announcer calling horse races; a scarred wooden bar; and a big tattooed guy standing behind it with a ball bat and .38 within reach.
I was one of maybe three women in the entire place. Nobody here noticed. They kept to their own business, which was mainly hard drinking—and reading their racing forms.
As for me, my ridiculous, cork-shaped tower of a hat was gone, but my red suit and white gloves were back in place, along with those pinching underthings. I fidgeted on the barstool, trying to adjust my armor-like girdle without ripping my skirt off.
Despite the Scotch, I was still feeling breathless, still seeing certain death bearing down on me.
“I thought it was curtains for both of us.”
Jack poured me another and offered a wry smile. “We both know a runaway DeSoto ain’t what stops my clock. It’s just not in the cards.”
“The card! Oh my gosh! Have you still got the card? I pinched it out of the purse of Harry Macklin’s secretary.”
“Got it right here.” He patted his lapel. “And I’m impressed.”
“I knew there was something suspicious about Dorothy Moreland. Now we know that’s not even her name. It’s Doris Sizemore—some coincidence, right? Same last name as Macklin’s missing star author, Mickey.”
Jack pulled the card out of his pocket and turned it in his hand.
“New York State Training School for Girls,” he read.
“Is that a prison?”
“It’s a couple of birthday candles shy of one. It’s a place to house incorrigible girls, until they grow up to be incorrigible dames.”
“How do you think she ended up there?”
“Any doll between twelve and seventeen can do time there if she got on the wrong side of the law. This card shows that Macklin’s mousy secretary did her time and is ready to return to society.”
“It also says she’s a trained stenographer.”
“They teach the girls skills, so they won’t go back to doing what jammed them up in the first place.”
“I see—and I can guess why Doris Sizemore changed her name.”
“Why’s that?”
“She probably couldn’t find work on Publisher’s Row, not with a criminal record. So, she took the name Moreland. How she got Macklin to hire her is a mystery to me, but it’s clear she developed a terrible crush on her boss; and with her real last name the same as the missing author’s, I’d say Mickey Sizemore is her father or uncle—someone who’s a born storyteller and had some hard knocks in life.”
I told Jack what I knew about the author, and it wasn’t much.
“Sizemore’s books are pretty dated, as I recall, and he died sometime in the 1950s. But he wrote colorful characters, and I can see why his books were bestsellers in his day. He knew the truth about the seamier side of the city, including prison life, and I’m guessing he wrote from experience.”
“I know a lot of miscreants and ex-yardbirds, but they got booked. None of them ever wrote one. And why all the drama, do you suppose? The bloody manuscript, the disappearing act?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Mickey Sizemore never thought his books would do so well. Now the pressure is on to write more, but he doesn’t want to. He’s out of ideas, or he’s just tired.”
“Why not just say so to Macklin?” Jack scratched the scar on his chin. “Why use Doris to deliver a bloody manuscript?”
“You got me there.”
“What about this mug with the gold dentures? The guy who doesn’t want Mickey Sizemore found? Who do you think he is?”
“Best guess? Someone the author hired to scare Macklin—and us, too—from trying to find him.” I took another sip of Scotch for courage. “So now what?”
“I’ve heard your theory, partner. You tell me.”
“That’s easy. I saw Dorothy’s gas bill in her purse, so I know where she lives.” I glanced at the horseshoe clock on the wall. “I say we stick with our original plan and pay her a visit. She should be heading home from work soon. With the right pressure, I’m sure she’ll tell us how to find Macklin’s missing author.”
Jack finished his Scotch in one gulp. Then he slid off the barstool and donned his fedora.
“Just remember, Penny. Theories are fine to start, but the case don’t end till you find hard evidence.”
“All right, Jack. Then let’s go find it.”