The Man Who Wasn't All There

Book 12: Stewart Hoag Mysteries

by David Handler

Genres: Ghost; Mystery; Amateur Sleuth; Animal Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

The latest installment of David Handler's Edgar Award-winning Stewart Hoag mystery series, set in 1990s' New York, sees the ghostwriter-sleuth and his faithful basset hound Lulu inadvertently make a dangerous enemy.


After six glorious weeks of hard work on his long-overdue second novel, celebrity-ghostwriter Stewart "Hoagy" Hoag has hit a crossroads in his plot. He thinks a change of scenery will do him good - and he knows just the place. His ex-wife, the actress Merilee Nash, has offered him the use of her idyllic Connecticut farmhouse, while she's away shooting a movie in Budapest.





Hoagy and his beloved basset hound Lulu settle in for a few days' rest and relaxation. Hoagy expects fall splendor, long walks and crisp night air. He doesn't expect Merilee's eccentric, unwelcoming neighbor. Austin Talmadge warns Hoagy not to get on his bad side, but what harm can a country oddball like Austin do?





Quite a lot, it turns out. All Hoagy wants to do is relax and clear his head, but soon he's caught up in a strange, complex mystery - and he'll need all his wits about him, and Lulu's unerring nose, if he's to come out of this one alive . . .

 

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Release date: April 1, 2021

Publisher: Severn House

Print pages: 230

Sample

ONE

I was me again.

For six glorious weeks I’d been living my dream, the one that I’d been clinging to for more than a decade – ever since the New York Times Sunday Book Review proclaimed me ‘the first major new literary voice of the 1980s.’ Ever since Joe Papp’s loveliest and most gifted discovery, Merilee Nash, and I were anointed as the Big Apple’s It Couple. Ever since I got writer’s block, snorted my career up my nose and Merilee drop-kicked Lulu and me back to my crappy fifth-floor walk-up on West 93rd Street, where I was relegated to scratching out a non-distinguished living as a ghostwriter of celebrity memoirs.

But now? Now I had my voice back. Not to mention residential privileges in the place I’d once called home. Every morning I was awake before dawn in that king-sized bed in Merilee’s opulent sixteenth-floor apartment on Central Park West, my head exploding with ideas. I was there but I wasn’t there. My body was living in the autumn of 1993. My heart and soul were living in the summer of 1975 – ‘My Sweet Season of Madness,’ as I was calling my new novel. I was back in my New York, the grimy, graffiti-strewn, rodent and drug-infested Ford to City: Drop Dead New York. The New York of CBGBs, the Mudd Club, Max’s and those after-hours dance clubs in Spanish Harlem that the Walt Whitman Award-winning poet Regina Aintree, my first great love, and I would go roaring up to at four a.m. on my big, bad black Norton. The New York of the Chelsea Hotel, where we were making crazy monkey love in Reggie’s third-floor room the night Sid Vicious of the Sex Pistols stuck that knife into Nancy Spungen’s stomach in Room 100. Allegedly. He OD’d before he came to trial.

I was so into what I was writing that while Merilee’s espresso machine did its thing I’d skip my morning shave and put on a white T-shirt, torn jeans, Chippewa boots and my 1933 Werber leather flight jacket just like I used to. An author is a method actor who works alone on paper. And I was totally in character. The one I’d been in ’75, who shaved twice a week and chain-smoked unfiltered Chesterfields. I’d bought a carton of them and allowed myself one smoke a day after dinner. I’d even had Grandfather’s old Ronson Varaflame lighter resuscitated at a cigar shop on Madison. All it had needed was a new flint spring assembly, the stooped, ancient repairman said.

While I drank my espresso I’d devour a toasted baguette with blackberry jam from Merilee’s farm while I put down Lulu’s breakfast of 9Lives mackerel for cats. She has rather unusual eating habits for a basset hound and, trust me, the breath to prove it. Then I’d head straight for my solid steel 1958 Olympia portable, which was parked on the genuine signed Stickley library table set before the windows overlooking Central Park in the office that Merilee had custom furnished for me, complete with a leather Morris chair and an Edward Hopper landscape painting of the craggy Maine coastline. Not a print. The actual painting. I’d crank up Rockaway Beach by the Ramones, which I listened to every morning – on vinyl, the way it was meant to be listened to – and I’d time travel back to that sweet season when I was so young, talented and brilliant, so high on life and an array of psychedelics that I was utterly convinced no one had ever lived a life like mine or possessed the ideas and insights I possessed or shared the passion that Reggie and I shared.

It was all brand new.

I soaked up the music and wrote my novel, which was turning out to be a darkly funny valentine about two gifted young New York artists who are in love with each other, with their work, with life – and the price they’d paid to make their dreams come true. Certainly the price that I’d paid.

Every day, the hours flew by as I heard the sounds, smelled the smells, experienced the joy and the agony all over again. My skin tingled as the words flowed through me. I had no idea what was coming out next. Just that they were words that demanded to be read. For a writer it’s the greatest feeling in the world.

The only missing element was Merilee, who was in Budapest playing Lady Brett Ashley in a lavish remake of Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises opposite Mel Gibson. But, in the immortal words of Meat Loaf – or Mr Loaf as the unfailingly hip New York

Times insisted upon calling him – two out of three ain’t bad. Besides, we’d made amazing progress over that past summer, my celebrated ex-wife and I. When I’d told her I might have an idea for a novel she’d generously offered me the guest cottage on her eighteen-acre farm in Lyme, Connecticut. I’d written my first three chapters there while she was busy directing a revival of Noel Coward’s Private Lives at the historic summer playhouse in nearby Sherbourne. A couple of people got murdered. Maybe you heard about it. I’d returned to the city Labor Day weekend. She’d followed me soon thereafter because Paramount had agreed to finance The Sun Also Rises and, after our first night of atomic passion in more years than I can remember, she’d invited Lulu and me to stay in her apartment while she was away. Since the calendar said it was still summer and the temperature averaged a muggy triple digits in my crappy fifth-floor walk-up on West 93rd, I’d leapt at the chance. So had Lulu, who enjoys her creature comforts almost as much as she enjoys anchovies, preferably chilled because the oil clings better. Did I mention she has unusual eating habits?

As much as I was missing Merilee, maybe it was better this way. I was zoned in seven days a week, morning, noon and night. Spoke to no one. Saw no one. I’d shown those first three chapters I’d written over the summer to the Silver Fox, my literary agent, who’d not only pronounced them ‘thrilling’ but had landed me a hefty advance from a top-flight publisher. I’d produced more than a hundred new pages since Merilee had left. I would write from dawn until noon, take Lulu for a brisk walk in the park, then mark up that morning’s work and rewrite it until I was satisfied. Evenings we’d stroll down to Tony’s on West 79th and Amsterdam where I would scribble notes in my notepad while I devoured linguini with homemade sausages and drank Chianti. Lulu would put away a small plate of calamari. After dinner I’d fire up my nightly Chesterfield, dragging contentedly on it as we strolled home. I’d climb into bed, review my notes for tomorrow, savor a few pages of Mrs Parker, who is someone I like to re-read every few years just to remind myself what good writing is, and then drop off, raring to get back to work in the morning.

I was so zoned in I was barely aware of what was happening in the world around me. I knew that the Toronto Blue Jays and the Philadelphia Phillies were playing in the World Series. I knew from my weekly trek up to West 93rd to collect my mail that the hottest movie packing them in at the Loews on Broadway and West 84th was a riotously funny feature film remake of The Beverly Hillbillies staring the riotously funny Jim Varney as Jed Clampett. I knew from standing in line at the grocery store that Vanna White, the remarkably gifted letter turner on TV’s Wheel of Fortune, was pregnant. So was Marla Maples, mistress of that puddle of ooze the tabloids called The Donald, as in Trump,

who was considering marrying her but wasn’t entirely sure she was worthy of his greatness. I also knew that the New York I was writing about, my New York, was so much more vivid and meaningful than the one I was living in now, which was why it was so vital for me to get it down on paper. And get it right. And I was. I felt sure of it. I also felt sure that the end of Nancy Spungen’s life under that bathroom sink in the Chelsea Hotel would signify the end of ‘My Sweet Season of Madness,’ although I had absolutely no idea how I was going to get there. I didn’t know. That’s part of the adventure. Or, as a very drunk John Gregory Dunne told me one night at a cocktail party: ‘I sit down to write the book to figure out why the fuck I’m writing the book.’

After sticking to my Spartan work routine for those six glorious weeks I’d reached a major crossroads in my plot and had no strong instinct telling me which road to take. Just a vague itch that something was missing. So I decided to treat myself to a change of scenery. Merilee had not only given me the keys to the apartment but to the 1958 red XK150 roadster that she was awarded in the divorce settlement, and had urged me to make use of her farm at the top of Joshua Town Road in Lyme, the bucolic Yankee Eden situated at the mouth of the Connecticut River on Long Island Sound, halfway between New York and Boston. She kept chickens there, had a duck pond, apple and pear orchards. I’d drive out for a few days and take in the splendor of late October in New England. The autumn leaves would be turning. The night air would be crisp and clean. I’d take long walks in the woods with Lulu. Put the vegetable garden to bed that I’d tended over the summer. Collect some baskets of apples and pears. Make a fire every night in the stone fireplace, sip Macallan, and think non-deep thoughts. It would be just what I needed.

At the copier shop around the corner I made a Xerox of the hundred new pages I’d written and messengered them to the Silver Fox for her feedback. She was an old-school agent who’d represented the likes of Steinbeck, Cheever and O’Hara and was the savviest reader in town. And then I packed. My Olympia went into its travel case. My manuscript and several notepads went into my Il Bisonte briefcase. My shaving kit went into Grandfather’s battered leather suitcase. I would need warmer clothes. The antique farmhouse was not exactly toasty. Some Viyella shirts. A six-ply shawl collar cashmere cardigan. My heavy barley tweed Norfolk jacket that I’d had made for me in London at Strickland & Sons. Also the Gore-Tex trail hikers that a little man on West 33rd Street had made for me many years back. I phoned old Mr MacGowan, Merilee’s neighbor out there, who fed the chickens and looked after the place, and told him Lulu and I would be coming out for a few days, which he was delighted to hear. Lastly, I wrestled Lulu into her Fair Isle wool vest. She’s susceptible to colds and snores like a lumberjack when she gets

 them. I know this because she likes to sleep on my head. After I’d locked up the apartment we rode the elevator down and strolled over to the garage on Columbus where Merilee kept the Jag. I stashed my bags, checked the oil and gassed her up. Lulu curled up on a blanket on her biscuit-colored leather seat, since the vintage British ragtop has little in the way of heat. Make that nothing in the way of heat.

We left mid-afternoon under threatening skies. By the time we’d reached New Haven on I-95 it was pouring rain and droplets were starting to leak in on us. The ragtop isn’t what I would call an impenetrable barrier. It was not only pouring but pitch black out when I got off the highway at Old Lyme and headed up Route 156 into the rolling hills of Lyme with my high beams on.

Joshua Town Road is narrow, twisting, hilly and there are no street lights out there. Not an easy drive in the best of conditions. In the dark of night with the rain pouring down on so many fallen leaves it was hard to even find the pavement. But I finally made it to the open gate at the end of the road and sped my way up the gravel drive that led to the darkened nine-room farmhouse that had been built in 1736 by Josiah Whitcomb, a prosperous shipping magnate. Merilee had installed motion-detector lights, which were a huge help as I pulled into the courtyard, where the chickens had retreated from their wire coop into the nice, dry barn. I parked as close to the front door as I could. Dashed to the front door, unlocked it and turned on a few lights. Lulu darted inside while I came back out for my Olympia, briefcase and suitcase.

Mr MacGowan, being a lifelong Yankee, had set the thermostat for the furnace at a thrifty, gelid fifty-five degrees. I jacked it way up to a hedonistic sixty-five and built a big fire in the parlor’s stone fireplace. Happily, he’d laid in a stack of dry seasoned hardwood and plenty of kindling. After the fire started crackling and popping I went into the huge farmhouse kitchen with its double work sink of scarred white porcelain and gallantly hideous yellow and red linoleum floor. I fed Lulu her 9Lives mackerel and checked out the refrigerator. Mr MacGowan had thoughtfully stocked it with a few essentials like fresh milk, orange juice, butter, cold cuts, a loaf of bread and a package of English muffins. Also a carton of a dozen eggs with a note taped to it: Just got laid. The man’s a savant when it comes to barnyard humor. I dug some thick-cut bacon out of the freezer and got several slices going in the Lodge cast iron skillet while I carried my suitcase into the master bedroom suite, which was not only freezing cold but had no covers on the bed. I built another fire in the fireplace in there, then made up the bed with flannel sheets, a Hudson Bay blanket and down comforter before I fed the fire in the living room, moved the bacon around in the skillet and unpacked my clothes.

By then Lulu was curled up contentedly on the parlor sofa in front of the fire and the

bacon was ready. I removed it from the skillet, poured off the fat into an old coffee can, popped an English muffin in the toaster and cracked four of those fresh laid eggs into the skillet. Their yolks were an incredibly bright orange. When the English muffin was done I buttered it and put it on a plate with the bacon and eggs. Found a bottle of Bass ale, put some Erroll Garner on the stereo, joined Lulu on the sofa and devoured my dinner while the fire crackled and the rain poured down and the Little Elf had his way with Misty like no one ever has or ever will. When my plate was clean I fished a Chesterfield from the pack in the pocket of my leather flight jacket, tapped both ends of it on the coffee table and lit it with Grandfather’s lighter, dragging on it gratefully as I drank the last of my Bass and felt my muscles unwind from the long drive.

After I’d smoked my cigarette I tossed the butt into the fire, cleaned the kitchen, turned off the stereo and lights and made my way to the bedroom, where I fed the fire before I took a hot shower. By the time I was ready for bed Lulu had already staked a claim to considerably more than half of it. I climbed into the cozy flannel sheets under the blanket and comforter and listened to the rain pour down and the fire crackle as Lulu burrowed close to me with her head on my tummy. She doesn’t exactly love the farm. She’s afraid of the coyotes and bobcats. She’s afraid of the wild turkeys, raccoons, possums and woodchucks, the chickens in their chicken coop, the ducks in their duck pond. Afraid of the duck pond. She can’t swim. Only dog I’ve ever met who can’t. Just sinks straight to the bottom glug-glug-glug. But wherever I go, she goes. We’re a team, like Dickens and Fenster. So I held her as I lay there in the firelight, fully intending to read Mrs Parker for a while. Never happened. I was fast asleep before I knew it.

By early morning the storm had passed. Quasimodo, Merilee’s rooster, was crowing his head off and the sky was a shade of blue you seldom see in New York City. ...