The Ghost and the Bogus Bestseller Read online

  Praise for the Haunted Bookshop Mysteries

  “Jack and Pen are a terrific duo who prove that love can transcend anything.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “I highly recommend . . . the complete series.”

  —Spinetingler Magazine

  “A charming, funny, and quirky mystery starring a suppressed widow and a stimulating ghost.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “The plot is marvelous, the writing is top notch.”

  —Cozy Library

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Cleo Coyle

  Coffeehouse Mysteries

  ON WHAT GROUNDS

  THROUGH THE GRINDER

  LATTE TROUBLE

  MURDER MOST FROTHY

  DECAFFEINATED CORPSE

  FRENCH PRESSED

  ESPRESSO SHOT

  HOLIDAY GRIND

  ROAST MORTEM

  MURDER BY MOCHA

  A BREW TO A KILL

  HOLIDAY BUZZ

  BILLIONAIRE BLEND

  ONCE UPON A GRIND

  DEAD TO THE LAST DROP

  DEAD COLD BREW

  SHOT IN THE DARK

  Haunted Bookshop Mysteries

  THE GHOST AND MRS. MCCLURE

  THE GHOST AND THE DEAD DEB

  THE GHOST AND THE DEAD MAN’S LIBRARY

  THE GHOST AND THE FEMME FATALE

  THE GHOST AND THE HAUNTED MANSION

  THE GHOST AND THE BOGUS BESTSELLER

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2018 by Penguin Random House LLC

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  A HAUNTED BOOKSHOP MYSTERY is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780698188624

  First Edition: September 2018

  Cover art by Catherine Deeter

  Cover design by Lesley Worrell and Natalie Thompson

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  This book is dedicated to our readers, who have waited nearly ten years for Jack to come back.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It is fitting that the authors of the Haunted Bookshop Mysteries be acknowledged in print, in their own work. Alice Alfonsi, in collaboration with her husband, Marc Cerasini, created and began writing this series in 2003. Their first Haunted Bookshop Mystery, The Ghost and Mrs. McClure, was published by Berkley Prime Crime in 2004 under “Alice Kimberly,” a pen name that Alice and Marc also dreamed up. Alice and Marc’s subsequent books in this series include The Ghost and the Dead Deb (2005), The Ghost and the Dead Man’s Library (2006), The Ghost and the Femme Fatale (2008), The Ghost and the Haunted Mansion (2009), and—after a nearly ten-year hiatus—this book, The Ghost and the Bogus Bestseller (2018).

  Alice and Marc gratefully acknowledge their readers, to whom this book is dedicated, for their long-suffering patience. Their enthusiasm for this world and these characters is what inspired this work. The authors also sincerely thank their new editor, Michelle Vega, for having the faith to bring Jack back. A final tip of the fedora goes to literary agent John Talbot for his longstanding support. To find out more about Alice and Marc and the books they write, under their pseudonym Cleo Coyle as well as their own names, visit these online addresses: cleocoyle.com and coffeehousemystery.com.

  CONTENTS

  Praise for the Haunted Bookshop Mysteries

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Cleo Coyle

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  1. Girl in the Store

  2. Girl on the Run

  3. Girl in the Bakeshop

  4. Girl in the Wilderness

  5. The Bird Is the Word

  6. Gone with the Windstorm

  7. My Baby Wrote Me a Letter

  8. Ciders’ House Rules

  9. Into the Woods

  10. Out of the Woods

  11. Auto Focus

  12. Two Visitors and a Funeral

  13. Driven to the Grave

  14. Pandora’s Box of Books

  15. A Shade Too Many

  16. Night Caller

  17. The Big Sleep

  18. Hearts and Flowers

  19. Breakfast for One

  20. All the News That Fits We Print

  21. Chez Mate

  22. Hot Pants, Cold Lap

  23. California Dreaming

  24. Swinging with Mr. Happy

  25. Irish Tea and No Tales

  26. Civil Bakery Service

  27. I Spy with My Little Eye

  28. Grand Theft Auto

  29. Something to Do with Death

  30. A Nickel for Your Thoughts

  31. Ready, Player Three

  32. Sally Snoops Among the Shelves

  33. Ghostwriter

  34. Call to Order

  35. Undercover Hostess

  36. Every Picture Tells a Story

  37. A Flap Over Copy

  38. The Write Stuff

  39. Sleepless in Rhode Island

  40. Trouble in Hell’s Kitchen

  41. Mickey’s No Mouse

  42. Blood, Sweat, and Paper

  43. Paint the Town Red

  44. Eyewitness

  45. The Impatient Patient

  46. True Confessions

  47. A Tale of Two Rewrites

  48. The Paper Chase

  49. The Unusual Suspects

  50. A Little Bird Told Me

  51. The Way We Were

  52. Get Out of Jail Free Card

  53. Family Feud

  54. Jack in the Box

  55. Death Takes a Joyride

  56. Down the Up Staircase

  57. Wrong the First Time

  58. Pretty Little Scribbler

  59. Pleasure Victim

  60. The Rat Came Back

  61. Debriefing

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  “A terrible book,” said the Bishop.

  “Who wrote it?” asked Cyril. “Does anybody know?”

  “The author prefers to remain anonymous,” intoned the Bishop, “and I for one am not surprised . . . In fact, I have written to the papers suggesting it should be withdrawn from publication.”

  “A sure way to increase its sales.”

  —The Ghost and Mrs. Muir by R. A. Dick (aka Josephine Aimee Campbell Leslie)


  PROLOGUE

  I been shaking two nickels together for a month, trying to get them to mate.

  —Raymond Chandler, The Big Sleep, 1939

  New York City

  April 1, 1947

  “I NEED YOUR help, Mr. Shepard,” the woman said. “You are Jack Shepard, aren’t you?”

  Jack would have pointed to a nameplate, but his desk didn’t have one. There was a phone that jangled several times a day, and scuffed filing cabinets he opened and closed on a regular basis, a beat-up desk, a couple of chairs, an electric fan that didn’t work and a flyswatter that did.

  Because his name was already painted on the door, right above the words PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR, a desk plate made about as much sense as a polo pony on skid row.

  “Sure, I’m Shepard,” Jack said, swinging his long legs off the desk.

  French perfume followed the dame in like a lovestruck floral arrangement, the cloying bouquet bringing an intentional whiff of money.

  Her pearls looked genuine, her tailored togs the latest style. The pair of stuffed foxes draped over her shoulders might have testified to her social standing—if their dead eyes could do more than stare. But mostly Jack knew the dame was flush from her uptown expression, the one your average Alvin gets in too-tight shoes. Lips pinched, nose held high, she spoke his name like she’d just eaten a bad oyster.

  Opening conversation had to take a back seat to the Third Avenue El, now playing a rumba on their eardrums. Waiting out the racket, they eyed each other like an exhibit at the Museum of Natural History, each wondering who was on the wrong side of the glass.

  Finally, the glass cracked, and Jack saw the flicker of nervousness cross the matron’s proud face. She wasn’t an old woman, but she wasn’t young, either, her wrinkles betraying hard years. Reaching down, he freed the bottle from his bottom drawer.

  “You like it neat?” he asked, pouring. He slid the glass her way. She scowled at the shot of rye as if a dead fly were floating in it.

  Shrugging his wide shoulders, he poured one for himself and sat back. “Okay, I give. What’s a dame like you want with a guy like me?”

  “My chauffeur, Williams, recommended you.”

  “Name don’t ring a bell.”

  “I’m surprised. He told me you’re both members of the same private gentlemen’s club.”

  “Gentlemen’s club?” Sure, he thought, and the Bowery Boys are taking tea at Oxford.

  “Oh yes. I forgot. Williams said I should mention a Mr. Benedict.”

  Jack covered his smirk with a sip from his glass. Roscoe Benedict—alias Bennie the Bookie—had a lot of suckers in his “club,” and all of them played the horsies.

  “How can I help?”

  With that question, some of the hot air left her skirts. “Honestly, I’m not sure . . .” Frowning, she settled herself in the chair opposite his desk. “The truth is, Mr. Shepard, I have no experience with private dicks. That’s what they call you, isn’t it?”

  “Among other things. Why don’t you tell me your problem?”

  “Yes. The problem. Well, you see . . .” She tried to go on, but her voice went shaky, her lower lip quivered, and her eyes filled with tears.

  Jack reached into his breast pocket for a handkerchief, but she waved him off, pulling her own lace-edged hankie from her purse.

  That’s when the Grand Hoover broke. Not crocodile drops, either. Jack let her go, until he feared drowning. If this went on much longer, he’d have to consult Noah on building an indoor ark.

  “Please, ma’am, slow the waterworks. If I’m going to help, you’ve got to stop bawling and tell me what ails you.”

  Jack’s firm voice seemed to help. The matron nodded, swiping at her wet cheeks and eyes. The disdain in her expression was wiped with it, leaving a shaky, broken look. That’s when she reached for that glass of rye, drinking the shot like a sailor on shore leave. One loud gulp and down the hatch. Still gripping the glass, she leaned forward.

  “Oh, Mr. Shepard. I’m a victim of a horrible crime.”

  “Go on.” He brought his glass back to his lips, but went still when the dame blurted—

  “Someone kidnapped my baby!”

  Jack set down his drink. “Ma’am, that sounds like a job for proper authority, not a gumshoe for hire.”

  “I talked to the police. They refused to help. Not even after I told them who the kidnapper was!”

  “You’re telling me you know the identity of your baby-snatcher?”

  “Henri Leroi, my soon-to-be ex-husband. When you bring my baby back, I’m sailing us to my sister’s home in London, where that horrible man can never bother us again.”

  Jack rubbed his square jaw. He could use the work. His bank account was flatter than a pancake under a bulldozer. But custody battles were no cakewalk.

  This matron looked a little long in the tooth to have an infant, but for all Jack knew, her “baby” could be fifteen—or adopted.

  “Look, Mrs. Leroi—”

  “Mrs. Armitage, if you please. I’ve gone back to my former name. Captain Armitage, my late husband, died at Anzio.”

  Another war-widow. Jack felt for her. He’d seen far too many men gasp their last breath Over There.

  “So, this Mr. Leroi is—?”

  “My second husband and former hairdresser. You know Leroi’s Trés Jolie Casa de Beauty on Lexington, don’t you?”

  “Not by personal experience.”

  “Henri owns it. When I was his customer, he was always so kind. Then the Captain died, and . . . well, I admit, I was lonely, and too easily taken in by Henri’s Continental charm and impeccable manners.”

  “Continental charm, eh?” Jack smelled a rat. “Did your baby come along while you were married to your first husband?”

  “Oh no, the Captain wasn’t interested in that sort of thing. He thought of it as my silly hobby . . .”

  Jack shifted. He wouldn’t have used those particular words, but he knew the Captain’s meaning.

  Long ago, inner demons assured Jack that a wife and kiddies were not for him. As a husband, he was certain he’d make a woman miserable, probably screw up the offspring, too. But on moonless nights, Jack’s pillow knew his dreams: a curvy redhead for a partner, smart and feisty but decent, too, the kind of dame he could trust. She’d have a backbone but be soft where it counted, like the sweet idea of home. There’d be a rough-and-tumble boy with half a brain and plenty of gumption. And a pretty little house in some quiet little town . . . these were what heaven was made of.

  Jack never said this out loud, of course, barely admitted it to himself. To the client across from him, he merely said—

  “So, ma’am, let me get this straight. Henri Leroi is your baby’s—”

  “We adopted her together. From a distressed family in Europe. Her name is Arianna . . .” Mrs. Armitage gestured toward Jack’s bottle. He slid it over, and she downed a second shot.

  Jack felt a twinge of sympathy for a little girl who was obviously a war orphan. But that didn’t change the misgivings he had about jumping into the middle of a custody brawl.

  “Why did Mr. Leroi kidnap Arianna?”

  “He intends to sell her, Mr. Shepard. Can you imagine such a thing?”

  After four years fighting through the same bloody mess as Captain Armitage, Jack could imagine plenty of things too terrible to share with this poor grieving woman. He downed the rest of his rye instead.

  “And how old is Arianna, Mrs. Armitage?”

  “Three.”

  Jack’s temper went from simmer to boil. The flesh trade was shocking enough, but to sell a toddler as if she were some sack of potatoes? That made him burn.

  Meanwhile, the matron rummaged through her handbag for a thick envelope and handed it over. “Here you are.”

  “What’s this?”

  “A copy
of Arianna’s papers.”

  Jack studied the documents and scratched his head. “I don’t get it.”

  “I simply want to assure you that recovering my baby is a worthy case. You can see that from her lineage, can’t you? It’s all right there in the pedigree.”

  “But this pedigree is for a Pekingese.”

  “So?”

  “You mean to tell me your ‘baby’ is a plain old dog?!”

  “Mr. Shepard! How can you be so insensitive? There is nothing ‘plain’ about my Arianna. She’s best of breed in her category, and one of the top show canines in the world!”

  CHAPTER 1

  Girl in the Store

  Some people make no effort to resemble their pictures.

  —Salvador Dali

  Quindicott, Rhode Island

  September, present day

  “EXCUSE ME, MISS. Do you have the new Girl book?”

  The question came on a busy Saturday afternoon. My inquisitive customer tapped me on the shoulder while I was restocking Erle Stanley Gardner’s Perry Masons (in order), The Case of the Velvet Claws through The Case of the Postponed Murder.

  The woman was about thirty years my senior—early to mid-sixties. Fashionably slender, she wore designer jeans at least three sizes smaller than my curvy figure. Her lilac cashmere sweater was an elegant choice for the early-autumn chill, along with her matching beret, which she’d jauntily pinned to her sleek silver bob. A fine leather jacket was draped over one arm while the other balanced a stack of books from our shelves.

  Judging from her posh clothing and late-September tan, I assumed she was a holdover from the summer people who had second homes in nearby Newport. I’d noticed her a few times, strolling through the streets of our little town, but I’d never seen her in Buy the Book, and I welcomed this chance to make her a regular customer.

  After grabbing a basket, I helped her load it with her selections—while trying to decipher her enigmatic request.

  “About the new Girl book, were you referring to The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo? Are you looking for one of its sequels?”

  “No, no! That’s the Millennium series!” The woman shook her head so vigorously I was afraid her pastel beret might Frisbee off and bean another customer. “I’m talking about the other Girl series.”