Fiction is based on reality unless you’re a fairy-tale artist.
—Hunter S. Thompson
I TURNED THE page on the final diary entry and swallowed another gulp of cold coffee.
Outside, the last of the rain pattered against the windshield. The thunder and lightning had ceased, though the late-afternoon sky still roiled with storm clouds. My thoughts were roiling, too. The truth behind the bogus bestseller was wilder than any fiction. The heat of the diary alone seemed to steam up my car windows.
“It’s just as I thought, Jack: Shades of Leather is a true story, and this is the hard evidence!”
I waited for my gumshoe’s reaction, but silence was my only reply. “Jack? Jack! Don’t abandon me now!”
The fog on the windows cleared up as the temperature quickly dropped.
Sorry, honey, I lost track of time . . .
I didn’t blame the ghost. After I fled the crime scene at Shirley Anthor’s house, I drove to Silva’s Seafood Shack, got a fresh cup of coffee, and returned to my car. Then I sat in the parking lot, riveted for well over an hour by the events of the diary. Jack, not so much.
That little girl sure did get a kick out of making the springs sing. Me? I’d rather make whoopee than write about it. Give me the highlights, will ya?
“Okay, let’s start with the basics. This diary was written by a girl in the 1970s. She was orphaned and put in foster care in her early teens. Her name was Stacy Baylor; and, according to the shocking things I read in this diary, she had good reason to flee Rhode Island, change her name to Emma Royce, and make up an entirely new history for herself.”
What did she do, kill one of the fellas she slept with?
“No—and keep in mind that she was legally still a child, only seventeen, and technically underage. At a dance club one night, she met a young man who she called ‘Dodger’ in the diary. He was a grad student, good-looking, on an athletic scholarship. They slept together often, and he introduced her to a lot of kinky stuff. He also brought her to private parties. This was a time period known as the ‘free love’ era—”
Like I already told you, no such thing as free love.
“The girl in the diary hooked up with at least a dozen different men, two of whom were dealing drugs and one of whom was a crooked politician. She never writes their full names, only nicknames and occasionally some physical characteristics.”
Physical, right, since she knows how their hambone’s boiled.
“Their what? NO, don’t tell me. I get it.”
Go on, doll.
“Two of these drug dealers sweet-talked her into dropping out of high school to take a job at a furniture store. They rented her an apartment above it. She partied with these guys, after hours, and they did plenty of drugs. Then they told her their ‘brilliant idea’ of using the couches in the store to move large amounts of drugs around the region without detection. At that point, Stacy was enthralled by these men, and addicted to the drugs, which they supplied to her. So, of course, she agreed to help them commit these crimes.”
This ain’t gonna end well. Give me the skinny.
“She wrote that she finally wanted out. The men started treating her badly, and she was desperate to be free of them, but she knew too much. She started obsessing about Marilyn Monroe and was sure if she tried to say no to any more criminal activity, these men would kill her, probably make it look like a fatal overdose. So she decided to kill herself first. That’s how she ended the diary. She wrote, ‘I’m going to end this. Not like Marilyn. I’m going to die my way.’ And I believe she did kill herself by killing the identity of Stacy to become Emma.”
I drained my coffee cup. “What I’d like to know now is how this diary ended up on Shirley Anthor’s desk.”
And how did the perky professor end up at the bottom of her basement steps?
“I don’t know who killed Shirley. But I’ll tell you who didn’t: Philip Hudson.”
Why not?
“Because I believe whoever killed Shirley also killed the librarian at Pine Tree Avenue—and did it by mistake. Philip knows what his ex-wife looks like. He wouldn’t have killed the wrong woman. And we know he was in Providence at the time.”
Unless he hired an idiot thug to do it, and the killer got confused.
“I don’t think so, Jack—and I’ll lay out why in a minute. First, think about this. The morning after Emma’s death, Eddie Franzetti described Philip as ‘broken up’ when he got back from Providence and heard the news. Then, only a short time later, Philip is chipper as a canary on the phone with me.”
And you don’t think he was playing the violin for the yokels?
“I think between the time he heard Emma was dead and the time we spoke on the phone, Emma contacted him for his help. I think that’s why he intentionally misidentified the dead woman and why he fed that false story to the Quindicott Bulletin. I think he still cares about his ex-wife and is trying to protect her.”
That’s a pretty sentimental view. You could be wrong. And if you’re wrong, honey, you could be dead.
“I could be dead soon anyway, and I’ve got to trust my judgment. I read enough of your case files to know you played your hunches, too, didn’t you?”
You got me there. So, what’s your hunch?
“That an academic colleague of Shirley’s and Kevin’s and Brainert’s is the man behind these murders—this Dodger character. I’ll bet he’s the one who had the diary for all these years. How did he get it? Why did he keep it? I don’t know. But I’m thinking he had it. And he used it to create a bestselling erotic thriller. He even used an old, sexy photo of Emma to serve as the image of the author, which tells me he thought she was dead . . .”
Go on, baby, this theory has potential. Sounds like all the pieces are finally fitting.
“When Emma ran out of my shop in a state of hysteria, she nearly ran over Wanda Clark, remember? Wanda said Emma was on the phone with someone, arguing violently. And she heard Emma shout the words, ‘Sorry isn’t enough!’
“Emma’s librarian friend was killed only a few hours later. According to the medical examiner, the woman was attacked before she was sent over the balcony. As I said, Philip was in Providence; and a few hours is hardly enough time to hire an assassin and arrange a hit. No. It’s more likely that whoever murdered Emma’s friend thought he was getting rid of Emma, which means he hadn’t seen her in years.”
Wrong place. Wrong time. I saw that enough in life—and come to think of it . . .
“I know, Jack, the big chill is no joke. And I think it was Dodger who gave it to that poor, innocent woman. Dodger was the only man in the diary who the girl routinely confided in. He kept sleeping with her, and sweet-talking her, but he didn’t care enough to help her, even after she begged him. She described him as a tall, muscular guy, an athlete—yet he continually claimed he was afraid of the drug dealers and their friends. In the diary, she started referring to him as Dodger the Worm. And he’s the most likely person in her circle to have kept a picture of her and landed a job at a university like St. Francis.”
It makes sense to me. But it’s still just a theory. What are you gonna do about it?
“Find the evidence to prove it. But I’m going to need help.”
Not the Keystone Cops.
“No. Emma’s ex-husband.”
I called up the text from Philip Hudson. The one I never answered. Hitting reply, I typed my message:
Philip, I have the diary. We need 2 talk.
Want 2 know all that U know.—Pen
I waited for a reply. It came within five minutes:
Pen, want 2 trust U. Must ask 4 proof.
If U really have diary, meet me at the Beach House 2 night.—Phil
I quickly opened the diary to one of the entries. “I found it!”
Lay it on me, honey.
“The Beach House was owned by a wealthy family who bought furniture from the store where Stacy/Emma worked. The family used the house only a few months in the summer and kept it closed the rest of the year. That’s when she would go out there and squat. It was her place to be alone and ‘get herself together to think,’ as she put it. She was at the Beach House when she made the decision to break free of the men who’d effectively enslaved her.”
And where is this beach house? On the Atlantic coast, I’ll bet. That only gives you a thousand miles to comb through.
I flipped through the diary, looking for another reference, and noticed a sticky note on a page near the end. I’d been so gripped by the diary, I hadn’t stopped to read it.
“Jack, this note is in Professor Anthor’s handwriting . . .”
Kevin, I finally worked out who “Dodger the Worm” is. You know, too, don’t you?—S
“Shirley knew, Jack! Before she was killed, she figured out who Dodger was, and she believed Kevin knew, too!”
And now you’re close to knowing, sweetheart, so keep your peepers open tonight, wherever you’re going. Or you could end up like they did. Where are you going, anyway? Got a clue yet?
“Here it is—I found the reference. The Beach House is in Denton Cove. That’s not far from here!”
You better bring backup.
“I’ve got you, don’t I?”
For this you need more than a willing spirit. Ring that postman again—and his puny professor pal.
I DID AS Jack suggested (I’d planned to anyway), and Seymour put me on speaker with Brainert.
I filled the pair in on everything that happened, including Shirley Anthor’s “fall” down her steps, my pinching of the Shades of Leather diary, and my hunch on the identity of the killer.
Brainert approved of my guess, and so did Seymour, who even recognized the location of Denton Cove.
“Been there,” he said, “but not for years. The locals call it Dead Teen Cove.”
“Why?”
“It’s an urban legend, Pen. A teenager drowned herself there decades ago, and now her ghost supposedly haunts the place. It’s private land, anyway, and very few people go there.”
“Do you remember a beach house?”
“Sure, but you can’t see it from the shore. The place is in the woods, above the cove.”
“We’ll find it,” I assured them. Then the postman and his professor pal sent me a map, and we all agreed to meet there.