The Ghost and Mrs. McClure

“That franchise was just starting to pay off again. Even the backlist was moving. It would have been such a blow to my company—”

“To Kenneth, you mean, since it was Kenneth Franken who actually wrote those last three Jack Shield novels. The franchise was a success because of Kenneth’s ghostwriting work. And that’s who you really cared about, wasn’t it?”

More of Shelby’s composure melted.

Remember, said Jack. Poke a few holes in her armor and she’ll deflate like a balloon.

“How did you find out about Kenneth’s ghostwriting?” Shelby demanded.

“I can read, Shelby. And so can a lot of other people. I saw how he’d mined The Neglected to jump-start the Jack Shield series again. But it was only a matter of time before someone else—someone in the press—made the connection and figured out that the last three novels were ghostwritten, especially with Kenneth Franken accompanying Brennan on his author tour.”

I watched Shelby’s wincing reaction.

“Oh, I get it now. Bringing Franken along was your idea, wasn’t it? So you’d have a stand-in waiting in the wings when Timothy Brennan collapsed. You were just waiting to drag Kenneth Franken in front of a microphone and reveal to the world that he really wrote those last three books, weren’t you?”

“Kenneth is weak,” said Shelby. “He refused to stand up to his father-in-law. Refused to promote himself and his writing. He’s a literary genius, so he’s far too sensitive when it comes to these things. It’s a tough business. He doesn’t understand how tough.”

“I see. So you graciously stepped in, because Kenneth needed someone with brains to manage his career. Someone like you. And Josh Bernstein? How did he fit into all this? Why did he have to die?”

“Josh was always ambitious,” Shelby replied. “But not smart. He figured out that Kenneth and I—well, you know what he figured out. That was bad enough, but he wouldn’t stop there.”

“He saw you tampering with the water bottles that night and then rush into the women’s room,” I guessed. “He knew you hid something in there.”

“I tried to distract him, sent him off on that fool’s errand for throat spray. But it didn’t work.”

“So Josh was never part of your plan.”

“He had plans of his own. Blackmail. I told him I’d meet his demands if he planted the syringe in Deirdre’s luggage. He did as he was told, but poor Josh met with an accident before I could return the favor. Not my fault.”

My eyes drifted to the floor. Then I smiled. Shelby must be running out of clothes, because she was wearing the same shoes she’d had on earlier—I could see the brick-red mud from Embry’s lot still on them.

“You were the one who stole the truck,” I said as soon as the realization came. “You were the one who ran Josh down.”

Shelby smiled, tight-lipped. In the dim light, with her hair raked back, her face resembled a skull. “You think you know a lot—”

“For a small-bookstore owner?”

“And as a small-bookstore owner, Mrs. McClure, you ought to know exactly what you’re messing with when you mess with me. Salient House is the largest publisher of fiction in the English-speaking world. How long would your little independent bookstore survive without access to novels by Maxwell Cushing, Louise Harper Mars, Anne Wheat, and all the other big best-sellers we publish, along with their backlists? You don’t have a syringe. You don’t have anything. And if you make a nasty accusation you can’t prove, I’ll make sure Salient House sees you as a bad risk and cuts you off—completely!”

I shrugged. “Well, Ms. Cabot, I admit that losing George Young as a sales rep would be sad, but we’d simply place our order through Ingram. Or Baker and Taylor. As an independent store, Salient House can’t very well tell those independent distributors who to sell to. And if they tried, let me see now—what would our hick-town lawyer call that? Restraint of trade, maybe?”

Shelby was fast losing her composure. Her empty threats weren’t scaring the chick from the sticks. She glared at me, looking trapped.

Time to pull the trigger, toots. She still hasn’t spilled her guts.

“So how could you do it, Shelby? Murder? Double murder? Is Kenneth Franken really worth it? You must really love him.”

Shelby’s brow furrowed; her lips slightly quivered.

“That’s none of your business,” cried Shelby. “Just tell me what you want. I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

Keep goring the bull, babe.

“Shelby, isn’t the real question: Does Kenneth love you? I mean, if he really loved you, then why is he in Providence right this minute, trying to find a lawyer for his wife? And not with the woman who murdered for him?”

This is it. She’s going to finger Franken as her accomplice .

“He’ll come around,” Shelby said through clenched teeth. “He loved me once. He’ll love me again. Once he sees what I’ve done for him. Once I tell him. And I will, after his wife’s good and convicted.”

I did my best to maintain my composure, but I couldn’t help at least blinking in surprise. “You mean it’s over? Between you and Kenneth?”

“Not over. Just interrupted. He pretends to love his wife, but I know how he really feels—about her. About me.” Shelby’s eyes became glassy, creepy. “You’re just like Kenneth,” she rasped. “You eat the sausage but you don’t have a clue what it takes to kill the pig. I used my networking contacts to introduce Kenneth to the right people, in New York and in Hollywood. He has an agent now. Because of me. He’s in negotiations with Visionwerks to write a feature film because of me—”

“But the film deal is based on the Jack Shield novels, isn’t it?” I pointed out. “And Timothy Brennan was the one who controlled all the rights? So his consent would be needed for any film deal to be made.”

“Brennan was an egomaniac. And he’d become lazy. He didn’t want to write the books anymore, but he wanted to take the credit and most of the money. And then he became angry—and jealous—that the books Kenneth wrote were so much better, so much more popular, than his own.”

“So that’s why Brennan was ending the series,” I guessed. “He didn’t want his son-in-law—the high-and- mighty ex-college professor—to show him up.”

“He was a stupid old bastard!” said Shelby. “All Brennan had to do was keep his mouth shut and let the Hollywood deal go through. Everything would have been fine! Brennan would have made lots of money, and Kenneth would have started a new career on the West Coast—far from Brennan and that doggy-faced wife of his.”

“Then you really did use the right amount of oil, didn’t you, Shelby?” I said. “Enough to kill Brennan, because deep down you knew he’d never let Kenneth succeed.”

“So what?” Shelby said. “I’m glad Timothy Brennan’s dead. And you should be, too. Look what it’s done for your store!”

Keep going, kid. Hang in there.

“I understand now,” I said with feigned sympathy, trying not to throw up. “You did it for love . . . for Kenneth . . . and to save the Jack Shield franchise.”

Shelby nodded slowly, clearly skeptical of my act, but hopeful, too—and desperate for an ally. “Do you see what I was up against, Mrs. McClure? Do you really see?”

“Yes, of course! A great literary talent like Kenneth Franken was being crushed by the selfish ego of a”—I nearly bit my tongue—“a foolish has-been. Somewhere along the way, you and Kenneth had fallen in love. You had an affair with him, but he went back to his wife, so you devised a plan to change the order of the universe, tilt the earth so he’d roll back into your lap, bringing the Shield franchise right along with him. How am I doing, Shelby? Am I right?”

Shelby’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You seem to understand everything, which tells me that maybe you do have the syringe—the real syringe.” She held out her hand. “Give it to me. Now.”

“No, Shelby,” I said. Slowly, my stupid grin flat-lined. Now it was Shelby’s turn to yammer on like a crazy person.