by Cleo Coyle
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.
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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.”
