The paperback field is less vivid than movie posters, but it does have a certain charm.
—Stanley Meltzoff, illustrator
RETURNING TO MY guests, I did my best to avoid staring across the dining room at Fiona’s efforts to pump Sam Tibbet for info. Refocusing instead on my professional duties, I tried to enjoy our celebratory meal. It wasn’t difficult: The food was amazing, and our guests of honor held the table spellbound with their amusing stories about their decades in the publishing business.
A large, effusive man of eighty-plus years, Liam Palantine was an impeccable dresser; a staid look counteracted his gray Einsteinesque tangle of uncombed hair. His wife, Sally, was a plump, jovial presence who laughed often, something she’d clearly done for years, judging from the lines on her gently furrowed face.
“I was just starting out when my father shifted from pulps to paperbacks,” Liam told us after my aunt asked how the pair had met. “I learned that a book is judged by its cover. That’s why I hired Sally as Palantine Publishing’s first art director.”
Sally nodded. “I’d made a study of book cover designs, even back then. It’s hard to believe these days, but in the first twenty years of modern mass-market paperbacks, there were really only five stylistic trends.”
She happily went through them all, starting with surrealism. “The original cover of The Maltese Falcon was a good example.”
“I remember it well!” Aunt Sadie said. “The cover showed a silhouette of the falcon statue with disembodied hands grasping for it.”
“That’s right,” Liam said. “That image told the story and sold the story. Unfortunately the Rex Stout and Erle Stanley Gardner covers sometimes looked like Salvador Dalí painted them, and readers didn’t always get it.”
“When World War II ended, styles did a one-eighty,” Sally said. “Covers became colorful and humorous with jolly typefaces typical of animated cartoons. Then the Cold War began, and covers changed with the country’s mood, returning to the violence and sensationalism of so many Depression-era pulps.”
“By ‘sensationalism’ you mean sex, right?” Seymour asked bluntly.
“Don’t be rude, Seymour,” Brainert scolded.
“No, your friend is right,” Liam said. “Even the most innocent novel had to have a scandalous cover.”
On that note, Sally told us about the fourth trend. “They were known as the keyhole covers. Penguin originally created it for an Erskine Caldwell novel in 1946—an innocent illustration of a hole in a picket fence, and through it you could see a family home. By 1950 the keyhole idea had been ‘borrowed’ by every other publisher, but this time they used an actual keyhole to create a feeling of voyeurism.”
“I remember those, too!” Aunt Sadie noted. “And the ones I recall weren’t so innocent.”
“No, they weren’t,” Sally said. “Those keyhole covers typically showed a scandalous scene: a woman in a state of undress or a couple in a compromising position.”
Just then, our beautiful Chez Finch desserts arrived, and we all dug in. Then more wine was poured, and Bud Napp cleared his throat.
“I’ve been keeping count on those trends of yours, Mrs. Palantine. You covered four so far. You still have a fifth to tell us about.”
“Yes, please go on,” everyone insisted.
Sally smiled, pleased to know we were all so interested.
“Let’s see, the fifth trend . . . that came along around the mid-1950s, when publishers decided to target the serious reader. By then, they all hired art directors who crafted a distinctive look for each company’s publications. And by the time the 1960s rolled around, the styles became genre-specific. A surreal image could sell science fiction, but Gothic romance readers demanded a realistic depiction of their heroine—”
“Yeah,” Seymour said, laughing and nodding. “In the dead of night, wearing a negligee, and fleeing a sinister old house on a hill.”
“Or better still, a castle,” Sally said. “There are hundreds of variations of that cover. An editor at Ace Books determined that a single lighted window on that castle could jump sales by five percent.”
“I think Harriet McClure would have made a fine romance illustrator,” Seymour declared.
“She was certainly accomplished,” Sally conceded. “But from what you told me back at the shop, Harriet had issues. You can’t rely on someone who works only when the mood strikes them. And in any profession, mental instability is a liability. Let’s face it, no art director wants their hire to pull a Van Gogh and hand you their ear.”
“Actually, that’s not accurate,” Violet Brooks said. There was a dead pause around the table. This was the first time Violet had spoken during the entire dinner.
“What’s not accurate?” Liam Palantine asked with genuine curiosity. “Sally’s remark about Van Gogh?”
“No. About Harriet McClure. I’ve been doing a little research into her life and background.”
“Really?” Seymour got excited. “Tell us what you’ve discovered, Ms. Brooks.”
“From what evidence I’ve found, everything people repeated about Harriet McClure’s psychological state appears to be a slander—a lie.”
“But we’ve heard the same stories for years,” Brainert countered, “about Harriet’s continual painting of self-portraits, her reclusiveness and midnight strolls in the woods. You’re saying the woman didn’t have psychological problems? What’s your evidence?”
Violet rested the flat of her hands on the tablecloth.
“Harriet McClure was a complex woman. Intelligent, talented, introspective, rebellious even—but she wasn’t mad. I would guess that Harriet was as psychologically sound as anyone at this table.”
“Seymour excluded,” Brainert quipped.
The mailman rolled his eyes. “Let the lady speak, Brainpan.”
Violet cleared her throat. “The Newport Historical Society granted me access to Robert Morehouse McClure’s papers. Harriet’s brother was twelve years her senior and raised her after their parents died in the 1889 flu pandemic.”
“Robert Morehouse McClure, now, there’s a name from the past,” Aunt Sadie blurted, a little tipsy after sharing a second bottle of wine with Bud. “The old-timers used to say he was a bit of a rogue.”
“Not the word I would use,” Violet said coolly.
“Oh? What word would you use?”
“Monster.”