The Ghost and Mrs. McClure

situations for use in the last three Jack Shield novels.”

I heard more gasps and cries of denial. Milner Logan was practically apoplectic.

“Calm down, Milner,” said Brainert. “It wouldn’t be the first time a popular writer had to turn to ghostwriters. Alexandre Dumas, author of The Three Musketeers, may not have written many of the novels attributed to him. And in the 1920s, struggling pulp wannabes like C. M. Eddy Jr. and Elizabeth Berkeley paid my ancestor H. P. Lovecraft to ghostwrite stories for them. Why, it’s even said that in his heyday, Jack London bought story ideas from Sinclair Lewis!”

I smiled woodenly as I reminded myself that Brainert couldn’t help it. The tone of a know-it-all college professor talking to dimwitted freshmen just came naturally to him, especially when he was worked up about the subject.

“Okay,” Milner said. “So the chronology works. Where’s your proof?”

“I would never make such a bold claim without evidence to back it up,” Brainert said indignantly. “A close reading of The Neglected gave me all the proof I need.”

Brainert shuffled through his notes. “For instance,” he said. “Jason Carmichael, the calculating villain in Shield of Night, bears more than a striking resemblance to Carmichael Fahl, the calculating father of the protagonist in The Neglected. Indeed, the two characters are described with nearly the same words.

“Carmichael Fahl had ‘a shock of white hair and mud green eyes the color of a stagnant tarn’ and Jason Carmichael’s had ‘a shock of silver hair and mud green eyes the color of a stagnant pool.’ ”

“What in hell’s a ‘tarn’?” asked Bud.

“A small lake or pool,” said Seymour.

“Oh. Same thing then, eh?”

“Come on!” said Milner. “That’s just coincidence. It has to be.”

“How about this?” Brainert replied. “Tandy Miller, the free-spirited artist from The Neglected, was transformed into Candy Tyler, the free-spirited music producer for Shield of Night. The two characters share similar biographies, both lived in Hell’s Kitchen flats described the same way, and they shared the same fates—both were beaten to death by their heroin-addicted boyfriends.”

Milner was still shaking his head, but his conviction was on the wane.

“And then there’s the suicidal bureaucrat Philip Breeland, who is transformed into the suicidal police commissioner Pete Land in Shield of Honor. Both characters even have wives named Maisy Donner!”

Brainert looked at Milner. “How common is a name like Maisy Donner?”

Brainert’s string of comparisons continued, until it was clear to everyone—including Milner—that Timothy Brennan hadn’t written those last three Shield novels, but hired his brand-new son-in-law to write them instead. And for his part, Kenneth Franken had splintered his old, failed literary work to provide the fuel.

It worked, too. Those novels sold like gangbusters—each a hard/soft best-seller. New titles probably would have continued to sell—as long as they were ghostwritten by Franken. If only Brennan hadn’t announced that Shield of Justice was “his” final novel and that he was turning to nonfiction.

“Follow the money and you find the motive,” said Seymour. “I still think it was Deirdre. She stood to inherit her father’s estate.”

“Maybe not,” said Brainert. “There’s Bunny, Timothy’s third wife. I’m sure she’ll contest any will that doesn’t give her full control of the estate.”

“That makes her a suspect, too,” said Milner.

“Except she was nowhere near her husband or the bottled water,” said Fiona. “Remember, a murderer needs access as well as motive. Bunny was back in New York.”

“She could have hired someone,” said Seymour. “A hit man from Planter’s Peanuts, maybe.”

“Not funny,” said Sadie.

“We’re forgetting something,” said Fiona. “What about Kenneth Franken? With Brennan out of the way, Franken could resume his ghostwriting career.”

“Ghostwrite for a dead author?” said Milner. “That’s crazy!”

“Not so,” Sadie replied. “V. C. Andrews has been dead for a decade, but somebody is writing new V. C. Andrews novels, because one is published every couple of years.”

“Maybe they’re written by Anna Filactic,” quipped Seymour.

I was pretty sure Fiona was headed down the wrong path again. If Kenneth Franken used the syringe to tamper with the bottled water, I could see why he had to get rid of the syringe. But why would he hide it in the women’s room? Jack had already pointed out to me that someone would easily notice a man going into the ladies’ room in a crowded bookstore.

Then I remembered the way Kenneth Franken stormed off in search of his wife’s makeup case yesterday afternoon—a makeup case Deirdre claimed was lost in the women’s room! Could it be that Kenneth and Josh were working together, to kill Brennan and frame Deirdre?

I dismissed that idea immediately. If Kenneth hid the syringe in the women’s room on the night of the murder, he could certainly have retrieved it when he and his wife returned the next day. And if he was the one who’d sent Josh Bernstein to retrieve it, then he could have told the young assistant where he’d hidden it and not forced Josh to search for it. And that’s exactly what Josh had to do—he’d had to search to find it.

No. In my mind, Kenneth Franken was no more involved with the murder of his father-in-law than his wife was. Beyond that, I couldn’t prove a thing because right now, Josh Bernstein was the only key to unlocking the mystery.

“Maybe the Staties have it right,” insisted Seymour. “The money trail leads right to Deirdre.”

“Or Kenneth Franken,” Brainert countered. “With Brennan out of the way, he could have taken over the Shield series the same way Kingsley Amis took over the James Bond franchise after Ian Fleming passed away.”

“Eeesh! I couldn’t finish Colonel Sun,” said Milner with a groan.

“Oh, yeah. As if every one of those Fleming novels was a masterpiece!” Seymour shot back.

“Boys! Let’s not turn this into a reading group!” Sadie cried.

“Brainert did that already,” said Bud, chuckling.

“Only to prove Penelope’s point about Kenneth,” Brainert shot back. “Look, Kenneth had a good motive for murder. Not only the franchise, but also the other woman. Didn’t Penelope say he’d been carrying on with that woman from the publishing house? Shelby? Well then, Franken had a motive to frame his wife for the crime as well.”

The room was silent for a moment as everyone considered Brainert’s point. Fiona spoke first.

“So you’re saying that Kenneth Franken might have killed his father-in-law, framed his wife for the murder, and is now poised to take over the literary estate and live happily ever after with his mistress? Why, that’s so devious. So cruel. So monstrous . . .”

Then Fiona nodded with enthusiasm. “I like the way you think, Brainert.”

Except for one thing, I thought to myself. A woman had to be involved in the murder in some way—because the syringe was hidden in the women’s room on the night of the crime. “Right, Jack?” I asked silently.

Right as rain, doll.

“That lets Deirdre off the hook, of course,” I quietly added, “because she wouldn’t frame herself—and the syringe turning up in her room was too pat, anyway.”

On the money again, babe, said Jack. It’s a big, fat frame job with Deirdre posing pretty in the picture. But she doesn’t fit, and she didn’t do it.

At that point, the Quibblers’ meeting degenerated into several private conversations and even a loud argument. Linda and Milner drifted over to me, Milner glancing at his watch.

“We’re heading home,” he said. “We’ve decided to open up tomorrow, after all, which means four in the morning is our rise-and-shine time.”

“What happened to your day off?” Sadie asked. “You never open on a Monday.”

“We do now,” said Milner. “If tomorrow proves half as busy as today and yesterday, we’ll make a