The Woman Who Lowered the Boom

Book : Stewart Hoag Mysteries

by David Handler

Genres: Ghost; Mystery; Amateur Sleuth; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

This new installment of the Edgar award-winning Stewart Hoag mystery series finds the beloved ghostwriter-sleuth finally on the precipice of reclaiming his previous literary fame when threats against his editor appear to put both his career and her life in jeopardy.

Stewart “Hoagy” Hoag is walking on cloud nine after a meeting with his editor, Norma Fives, where she predicts his new book is sure to establish him as the next great American author. It has been years since he has even dreamed of such success after a crippling case of writer’s block limited his literary aspirations to ghostwriting celebrity memoirs. But his happiness is short-lived when at his next meeting with Norma she asks for his help in discovering who is behind a series of increasingly threatening letters sent to her attention.



Norma herself is not overly concerned about the letters but her boyfriend, Detective Lieutenant Romaine Very of the NYPD, thinks the threat of violence against Norma should not be so easily dismissed. Very feels the combination of Hoagy’s detective skills and knowledge of the underbelly of the publishing world make him the perfect person to investigate the matter. Plus, Hoagy is a friend he can trust to take care of the love of his life. Hoagy agrees if for nothing else than to ease the minds of two people he cares about very much. After all, this is likely to be nothing more than a dramatic gesture from a frustrated writer.



But as Hoagy and his trusty basset hound Lulu investigate, the threats move beyond the written word, making it clear that someone out there is determined to write a vicious ending to Norma’s life. Could it be the wealthy aging children’s author? The unethical snake of a literary agent? Or the handsy historian? This is not the return to the literary world that Hoagy dreamed of, but he is determined to unravel the mystery before the author of these crimes gets the last word.

 

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Release date: February 13, 2024

Publisher: Mysterious Press

Print pages: 287

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

“It’s Norma,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. “Please tell me I didn’t wake you. I know it’s kind of early.”

Lulu, my faithful, breath-challenged basset hound, certainly thought so. She grumbled unhappily at me from her leather armchair before circling around three times and falling back into a grumpy doze.

I glanced at Grandfather’s Benrus on my wrist. “It’s not kind of early, Norma. It’s five twenty-seven a.m. But, no, you didn’t wake me.”

Hell, no. I’d been sitting at the Stickley library table that served as my desk for nearly two hours, wearing my Sex Pistols T-shirt under a ragged old turtleneck sweater, torn jeans, and Chippewa boots while I listened to the Ramones on vinyl, drank espresso, and stared out the window at our sixteenth-floor view of predawn Central Park with my stomach in knots, waiting, waiting for her to call. An author is a performer who works alone on paper, and I was still in character. Still writing the book, still living the book, still inside of the book.

Until Norma said otherwise.

Merilee had spared no expense to furnish the office for me when she decided it was time for me to move back into the prewar doorman building on Central Park West, which I’d called home back when we were New York City’s “it” couple. She was Merilee Nash, Joe Papp’s most beautiful and gifted rising star. I was Stewart Hoag, the tall, dashing young author of Our Family Enterprise, the best-selling novel that had prompted the New York Times Book Review to hail me as “the first major new literary voice of the 1980s.” I was a shining star—right up until I got writer’s block, snorted my career and marriage up my nose, and got booted back to my crummy unheated fifth-floor walk-up on West Ninety-Third Street, where I eked out a highly undistinguished living as a ghostwriter of celebrity memoirs.

But it was now the spring of 1995 and I’d found my voice again. Or I believed I had. I’d just devoted the past two years of my life to My Sweet Season of Madness, a rollicking tale about my wild postcollege years in the graffiti-strewn, crime- and rat-infested punk-music world of New York City in the seventies. When I’d shown the first 150 pages of it to the Silver Fox, Alberta Pryce, my highly respected literary agent, she pronounced them so thrilling that she sold my work in progress, sight unseen, to Norma Fives, the brilliant young editor in chief of Guilford House. Norma was still in her twenties but had such a razor-sharp literary mind that the publishing world was calling her the next Bob Gottlieb. And such was Alberta’s reputation that Norma hadn’t hesitated to offer me a lucrative contract even though I’d refused to show her a single page of it until it was done—or at least as done as it could be without an editor’s input. Alberta had read the finished manuscript two days ago and was wildly enthusiastic. Trust me when I tell you that Alberta is seldom wildly enthusiastic. With my blessing, she’d phoned Norma, calmly told her “Hoagy’s ready for you to have a look,” and messengered it over to her, all 378 pages of it.

And now I sat there, my heart pounding, waiting for her to say something. Anything. What she finally said was “So . . .”

And what I said was “So . . .”

“I’ve read your novel twice. The first time I approached it the way a reader would. The second time I read it as an editor and marked it up. I’ve just finished, but I figured despite the hour you’d be somewhat anxious to get my response.”

Norma, like the Silver Fox, often worked straight through the night.

I breathed in and out impatiently. “And . . .?”

“And what, Hoagy? Oh, I forgot, we’ve never worked together before. I never have editorial conversations with authors over the phone. That’s what’s wrong with the modern publishing

business. Nobody talks to anybody in person anymore. And, my God, now that we have America Online, people don’t even talk on the phone. They just dash off stupid emails to each other. God, I hate those things. I’ll be waiting at the entrance to Central Park, across the street from your building at six o’clock, which is to say in thirty minutes. It should be getting light out by then.”

“I’ll be there, Norma. But, seriously, you’re really not going to give me even the slightest inkling of your reaction until then? You’re just going to torment me for thirty solid minutes? Make that twenty-nine.”

“It’s payback time. Did you show me pages of the book when I begged you to?”

“You know what, Norma? You’re a genuine piece of work.”

“You know what, Hoagy? You’re not the first person who’s told me that.”

I brushed my teeth and shaved in my office bathroom, then made my way down the corridor, Lulu following me just in case there might be a can of 9Lives mackerel for cats and extremely weird dogs in it for her. In addition to my office at the far end of the corridor, there were two guest bedrooms and a bath. A door that Merilee had installed for my privacy opened into the living room, which she had furnished in mission oak after I left, and not just any mission oak but signed Gustav Stickley craftsman originals, each piece spare, elegant, and flawlessly proportioned. My favorite piece, aside from the writing table she’d chosen for me, was the oak-and-leather settee set before the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room overlooking the park. I would stretch out there every day after lunch and hand edit my morning’s work before I returned to my office to retype it on my solid steel 1958 Olympia portable. The door to the master bedroom suite, which was off the entry hall, was closed, the phone unplugged from its wall outlet. Merilee—which is to say jet-lagged, thoroughly exhausted Merilee—was no doubt still fast asleep, having just returned after finally finishing principal photography in Budapest, London, and Pamplona on the trouble-plagued remake of The Sun Also Rises with Mr. Mel Gibson. The director had been fired, the director had been rehired, and on and on it went. But it was done now, aside from some looping that she could do in a New York sound studio.

I opened a can of mackerel for Lulu to devour while I fetched my 1933 Werber A-2 flight jacket from the entry hall closet and put it on. It was spring but still chilly in the early morning. Lulu joined me, licking her chops, and out the door we went. Rode the elevator down to the lobby, where Arturo, the building’s new morning doorman, was already on duty in his brass-buttoned uniform and spotless white gloves. He wished me a polite good morning as he held the door open for us. I returned the greeting. Then we crossed Central Park West in dawn’s early light, and, sure enough, there was Norma Fives waiting for me at the entrance to Central Park with her book bag thrown over her shoulder, looking uncannily like a geeky college sophomore

in her thick horn-rimmed glasses. The hottest editor in publishing was five feet tall, bony nosed, and so scrawny she couldn’t have weighed more than ninety-five pounds. Her blunt hairdo looked as if she’d cut it herself in the bathroom mirror with a pair of poultry shears. Throw in the boxy, shapeless knit sweater, skirt, and pair of black-and-white saddle shoes she was wearing, and Norma bore an eerie resemblance to one of those nutso, skinny-armed little girls in Roz Chast’s brilliant New Yorker cartoons. But Norma was not to be trifled with. She was ruthless and tough as nails. There was a famous story about her in the publishing world. Back when she’d been an entry-level editorial assistant, she decided she’d taken all the high-decibel personal abuse she could tolerate from the editor in chief at the weekly editorial meeting and hurled a heavy black Stanley Bostitch stapler across the conference table at the nasty bitch, coming within an inch of blinding her. Naturally, she was fired. But she was so talented another house had hired her by the end of the day.

She bent down and patted Lulu, then gazed up at me, her face revealing nothing in the streetlamps. “I wish you’d stop being so tall.”

“Possibly you’re just a shrimp.”

After she’d stuck her tongue out at me, we started into the park, Norma steering us in the direction of the playing fields.

“How’s Very doing?” I asked her.

At twenty-eight, hyperactive hipster Romaine Very was the top homicide detective in New York City. He and I, through no fault of my own, had ended up joined at the hip on several murders. The latest was just this past fall. When we’d paid a visit on a suspect together, Very took a bullet in the thigh that nicked his femoral artery and nearly cost him his life. Strangely, we’d grown to become friends. Even more strangely, when he’d met Norma on another case, they fell madly in love. They had a host of neuroses in common, plus they were both brilliant. Very had a degree in astrophysics from Columbia.

“He’s back catching cases again,” Norma answered. “Says his leg is about eighty-five percent there. It still aches at night after a long day on his feet.” She gazed up at me. “You saved his life, you know.”

“Did not. That was Lulu, not me.”

“He doesn’t remember it that way.”

“Well, I do. And so does Lulu.”

Lulu let out a bark to confirm it. She has a mighty big bark for someone with no legs.

We arrived at a nice open stretch of dewy lawn that we had completely to ourselves since it was still barely six o’clock. Norma plopped her book bag down, opened it, and pulled out a bright pink Frisbee.

“Go out for one,” she commanded me with a wave of her tiny hand. 

“Go out for one? Who are you, Joe Pisarcik?”

“Joe who?”

I sighed. “Sometimes I forget you’re still a child.”

I ran across the grass and she flung the Frisbee my way with a quick flick of her wrist. I caught it and sent it back to her. And so we played Frisbee for the next five minutes instead of talking about the novel to which, as I believe I mentioned, I’d devoted the last two years of my life. Lulu barked at me to let me know she wanted in. She likes to play Frisbee. She doesn’t showboat like those slobbery golden retrievers that leap high in the air to make the catch, but she’s sure-footed and catches anything that comes her way. I tossed her one and she caught it in her mouth and ambled back to me to deliver it.

“Attagirl, Lulu. Oh, hey, Norma, you don’t mind mackerel-scented saliva on your Frisbee, do you?” I tossed it to her.

Norma caught it, and blurted out, “It’s exhilarating, heartbreaking, and so full of hard-fought wisdom that you totally knocked me on my ass. You nailed it, you bastard. It’s the best novel any American author has written in at least five years.”

I stood there motionless, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “But . . . ?”

“There’s no but. We’re going all in. It’s going to be our big Christmas literary novel. Major promotional campaign, national author tour, the works. I know from Alberta how long and hard you’ve battled. Twelve years it took you to claw your way back. But you did it, Hoagy. You’re back.” She peered at me suspiciously in the early light. “You’re not saying anything? Why aren’t you saying anything?”

I swallowed, breathing in and out. “I’m just . . . stunned. I thought it was good. Every morning when I woke up, I was so anxious to get to the typewriter that my fingers would itch. And Alberta kept telling me it was good. But until you hear it from your editor . . .”

“It’s not good, tall person. It’s great. A major, major novel. Mind you, it’s not perfect. I’ve marked it up. Made suggestions for tweaks here and there. Mostly, you got tired every once in a while and settled for an observation that could have been just a tiny bit sharper. But I’m a real stickler that way. I want every word to be perfect.”

“As do I. Just let me at it. I’ll work my tail off.”

“The manuscript’s in my bag. If you could get it back to me in a couple of weeks, that would be great. I really, really want to move on it. Get the sales force involved, the marketing weasels . . .”

“Sure. Absolutely. Anything you say.”

She stowed the Frisbee in her book bag, pulled out a blanket, stretched it out on the lawn, lay down on her back, and stared up at the sky. I did the same. She took my hand and squeezed it. “Admit it, this is better than a phone call.”

“Much better.”

“We can feel the earth

under us. And see the stars.”

“I can’t see any stars. It’s cloudy.”

“They’re still there, doofus. Hoagy, can I ask you a personal question?”

“Norma, you can ask me anything.”

“Did you really do all those things? Take all that LSD? Ride around to after-hours dance clubs in Spanish Harlem at four in the morning on your Norton motorcycle with Reggie Aintree?”

“I never say in the book that it was Reggie.”

“Okay, so you call her Angie. But everyone knows you two were a hot item.”

Indeed, Reggie Aintree was the first great love of my life. A gifted poet. Daughter of Eleanor Aintree, the Pulitzer-winning poet, and Richard Aintree, the enigmatic author of the classic novel Not Far from Here.

“Did those things really happen?” she pressed me.

“They happened. I did crack up my bike and I was in a coma for three days.”

“I think five days would be better.”

“Five it is, Coach.”

“Thanks. I like to feel as if I’m contributing something.”

“You did a lot, Norma. You believed in me. Or at least believed what Alberta was telling you. Does she know you’ve read it?”

“I called her before I called you. She’s delighted, of course.” Abruptly, Norma sat up and said, “Okay, our editorial session is over. If you have any questions or can’t make out my handwriting, call me. If there are any notes you hate, ignore them. It’s your book.”

She reached into her book bag for my manuscript, which was stuffed in a padded mailing pouch, and handed it to me. Then we stood up, she folded her blanket and put it in the book bag with her Frisbee.

I said, “Tell Very I said hey. I’m glad he’s back on the job.”

“And say hey to Merilee for me. I’m glad she’s home.”

“Her body’s home but her brain is still somewhere out over the Atlantic. I’m going to wake her up and give her the good news. But before I do, I just need one last reality check. I’m not hallucinating this, am I? It’s really happening.”

“It’s really happening. I’m about to publish the best novel of my career. And I’m not going to pressure you to write another one because I know that’s how you got in trouble before. You don’t ever have to write another book for me or anyone else as far as I’m concerned. But if you do, I get first dibs. Deal?”

“Deal. But wait a sec . . .” I took her book bag off her shoulder, gave her a hug, and kissed her on the cheek.

She gazed up at me like a wide-eyed kid. “I swear, I’ll never forget this

moment for as long as I live.”

“Trust me, neither will I.”

***

To my astonishment, Merilee was actually up and about when Lulu and I returned, although she was moving as if Count Dracula had just put her in a trancelike state. Her facial expression was so utterly blank that I found myself searching her throat for fang marks. She was making espresso and also putting a load of her travel laundry into the bright red Swedish high-efficiency washing machine. But she was so zonked it wouldn’t have surprised me if she’d tried to make the espresso in the washing machine instead.

Merilee’s waist-length golden hair was tied up in a bun. She was wearing a Turnbull & Asser target-dot silk dressing gown that had been mine until she stole it from me. There aren’t many downsides to living with a gorgeous six-foot-tall movie star, but one of them is that she constantly “borrows” my clothes and doesn’t give them back because they look better on her than they do on me.

“Well, look at you . . .” she murmured at me, yawning hugely as she poured us out two cups of espresso, handed me mine, and took a grateful gulp of hers. “Out before dawn, all bright-eyed and pink cheeked.” She smiled down at Lulu. “And how are you, sweetness?” Lulu stood before the refrigerator and let out a low whoop. She wanted an anchovy treat. She likes them cold because the oil clings better. Merilee opened the jar and gave her one, then petted her. “Darling, why is Lulu all wet?”

“We were playing Frisbee in Central Park.”

Merilee arched an eyebrow at me. “Since when did you two start living in a Neil Simon play?”

“Actually, we had a third playmate.”

“Who was the other . . . ?” Merilee was still far from alert, but thanks to the espresso, she’d finally noticed the mailer pouch under my arm. “What’s that you’ve got there, Mister?”

“What, this old thing? Just my novel. Norma called me at five twenty-seven a.m. to tell me she’d read it twice and was ready to talk about it. It seems she doesn’t like to have editorial conversations over the phone so we met in the park at dawn—although she still wouldn’t give me so much as a hint of her reaction until the three of us had tossed a Frisbee around for a while. ...