In Greek tragedy, they fall from great heights. In noir, they fall from the curb.
—Dennis Lehane
AS MY FINGERS tightened on the coffee cup, the passenger side window descended, and a familiar face peered at me.
“Larry Eaton?” I lowered my window, and a blast of rain hit my cheeks. Only then did I realize I was already damp from a cold sweat.
Who’s Baby Face?
He’s the town plumber, Jack.
We got spooked by a pipe-pusher with slippery pants?
Larry’s cherubic smile dominated his round face. “When you left the Metro Mart, I noticed your taillight wasn’t working.”
“Do tell,” I rasped, my heart still racing.
“Bull McCoy wrote me a ticket for that same violation last week. Cost me fifty bucks! I wanted to give you a heads-up before you got nailed, too.”
“You’re a guardian angel, Larry. I’m sorry about the chase. I would have stopped, but I didn’t recognize the van.”
He nodded excitedly. “It’s new. I took my old clunker over to Stuckley’s to get that taillight fixed, and Kent Clark talked me into this beauty. I’m on my way to get my business logo stenciled on the side.”
Larry made a U-turn and drove away. As he gave me a final wave, I heard an irritated voice speaking through my smartphone. My frantic and forgotten emergency call had been answered by dispatch, who sent it right to Chief Ciders.
“So sorry, Chief. It was a false alarm.”
“Then get off the line!” he roared. “I’ve got a smashup near the college that’s turned the campus into a parking lot!”
I ended the call and took a breath. “Okay, Jack, let’s forget this happened, find Shirley, and get some answers.”
I reached into the back seat to retrieve Shirley’s lost book, my hand brushing the bag where I’d put Emma Hudson’s leather gloves. I couldn’t help cringing, remembering her terrible end.
That made me pause.
I had misjudged Larry and his van.
What if I misjudged Shirley, too?
“Jack, what if Philip Hudson really is innocent, and Shirley is not only the third ghostwriter, but the killer, as well? It’s possible, right?”
Almost anything’s possible, kiddo, in theory.
“I know, I know. Get hard evidence.”
I checked my phone again but still hadn’t heard from Seymour and Brainert. I could wait for them to join me here. By then Shirley might be off to Millstone . . . Millstone? I frowned, remembering—
“Philip Hudson lives in Millstone. What if Shirley is meeting Philip for dinner? What if Shirley is innocent, just an anonymous writer, and Philip is the real killer, maybe working with hired help? That would explain why he had an alibi on the day of his ex-wife’s death. What if Hudson plans to end Shirley the same way Emma and Kevin Ridgeway were ended?”
Slow down, baby, or you’ll “what if” yourself into the cackle factory.
“Fine! I’ve decided. I’m pressing forward. Shirley knows I’m coming to return a book. I won’t present a danger or threat, so I should be safe. If I see those copies of Shades of Leather, I won’t say a thing. I’ll simply tail her to Millstone. If her meeting is with Hudson, I’ll call Eddie.”
On my way to the house, I passed her car with the wide-open trunk and spied boxes of books inside. Obviously, Shirley was in the middle of moving her donations to the library. But so far, there was no sign of her.
The front door stood open, but I rang the bell anyway.
“Dr. Anthor? It’s Penelope McClure!”
Silence followed. A spooky silence. I shivered—and not because of Jack’s spiking energy.
Keep your peepers open, baby.
I pulled out my phone, thumb ready to press the 911 button, and carefully entered the house. The foyer was flanked by a plant on one side and a deer-antler coat hanger on the other. When the corner of my eye caught a bulky male figure, I let out a shout.
Cool your heels, doll. It’s just a steel scarecrow.
Feeling stupid, I moved passed the suit of faux medieval armor guarding the hall, and called out again. My voice echoed back to me.
The foyer ended at a flight of stairs to the second floor. Doorways stood on either side. One to the library and one to the kitchen. I headed for the library, assuming Shirley would be there.
I was wrong.
Alone in the room, I decided this was my chance to snoop. The walls were covered by heavy oak shelves. Most of the books were focused on medieval studies.
Everything was tidy, except the antique desk, facing the curtained window. Its surface was layered with student papers, lesson plans, and textbooks—stratified by semester instead of geologic age.
Glancing over my shoulder, I began my excavation, worried Shirley would come upon me at any moment. The first thing I uncovered was an old electric typewriter. I slid more layers of papers aside, until I found books, the kind that would have provided, ahem . . . inspiration for a writer penning Shades of Leather.
On top was Story of O; then a Grove Press paperback of My Life and Loves by Frank Harris; and The One Hundred and Twenty Days of Sodom with a broken spine. Under those I found a coffee table book with illustrations of all 245 Kama Sutra positions.
Beneath that, I counted six copies of Shades of Leather, all first printings and in pristine condition.
“Eureka, Jack!”
Looking around the room, I saw no other copies and quickly did the math. “Six copies were with Kevin, six with Brainert, and six here. That leaves six of the twenty-four copies still unaccounted for.”
Who has the final six, do you think?
“I don’t know, Jack, not yet.”
Buried under the hardcovers, I found a vintage St. Francis University folder, and inside that, an old diary. I hurriedly flipped through the diary pages, skimming enough to be certain of what I was holding—
“Jack, this is Emma Hudson’s diary!” (Now I had no doubt.) “I found our third author!”
Sorry to rain on your parade. But you haven’t found anyone yet. That Shirley dame is missing.
“She must be here . . . somewhere.”
I crossed the hall to the kitchen, which was empty of all but plant life. There was a closed door near a breakfast nook, which I assumed would lead to a dining room.
Wrong again.
Behind the door I found a flight of rough wooden steps, leading to the basement and something else—Shirley Anthor. She was sprawled at the bottom of the steps, a burst cardboard box and dozens of hardcovers piled on top of her.
I descended the stairs, carefully stepped around the woman, and kneeled beside her. I could not feel a pulse at her wrist, but the flesh was warm, and I held out hope that she was still alive.
It was only after I’d cleared away the heavy hardcovers that I realized Shirley was lying on her stomach, yet her dead eyes stared up at me.
“Her head. It’s twisted around. Her neck is broken, Jack. Could that happen from a fall down a flight of stairs?”
Not like that. This was no slip and fall.
I tried to quell the revulsion welling up inside me, but I started shaking uncontrollably at the sight of her corpse.
Take a deep breath before you shoot your cookies.
Fortunately, I didn’t shoot my cookies, though I did hurry to get out of there—
Slow down! Jack counseled. Go back to the library.
“Jack, I have to call the police!”
Listen to me. Remember Doris Sizemore? To solve this case, you’ve got to pinch something, too—and not a reform school card.
“You want me to take the diary?”
It’s the key to the case, honey. You need to see what’s in there.
“But this is a crime scene!”
Sure it is. But you know and I know the local yokels won’t understand how to read that evidence. Not for a while. Maybe not ever. And the clock is ticking down on your egghead friend—and you, too.
“Okay, Jack, you win.” I grabbed the diary and got out of there. “I’ll read it fast. Then the evidence is going to the police!”
On the way to my car, I hit 911. Dispatch gave me Ciders.
“Is this another false alarm?!” he barked.
“No, Chief. It’s another corpse.”