By Any Other Name
Henry David Thoreau wrote that the "mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." This is no doubt true of Wendy Greenlaw—although she lived under the false impression that she was happy or at least contented. However, she was willing to admit her life had been a quiet, uneventful one. After all, she spent the greater part of her waking hours working in a library, a place where talking was done in whispers and a no-noise rule was strictly enforced.
Wendy never married and never had children. She lived with her parents from the day they brought her home as an infant up until the time they passed on. When her father was dying, she helped her mother take care of him. Six years later, she nursed her mother during her last days. With both her parents gone, the retired librarian sold the family home and moved into an apartment at the Golden Years Retirement Community, a place that offered safe, comfortable and affordable housing for people aged sixty-five and older. As an added bonus, free transportation service was available for the residents, so there was no need for her to own a car.
Sticking to a set daily routine, the retiree was able to keep her life sailing along on an even keel. The day started every morning with a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of orange juice, which she prepared in her own tiny kitchenette. Weather permitting, she would take a walk after breakfast and then watch her morning game shows and complete crossword puzzles during the commercial breaks. Lunch was always a sandwich (tuna, grilled cheese or peanut butter and jelly). Afterward, she would spend the afternoon watching movies on the Hallmark Channel until it was time to head to the dining room for the evening meal.
The dinner hour—the name was a misnomer since the meal rarely lasted an entire sixty minutes—was also a social time for most of the residents. But Wendy was not and never had been a sociable person. It was not that she was a misanthrope; like Greta Garbo, she just preferred being alone. That does not mean she was rude or unfriendly. She always greeted people with a smile and listened politely when they spoke. As soon as she was done eating, though, she excused herself and returned to her apartment.
Evenings were unquestionably the former librarian's favorite time of day. After a quick shower, she put on her flannel pajamas, fleece bathrobe and fuzzy slippers and headed for her living room. From the moment she pulled the lever on her reclining chair to the time she turned off the light and went to bed, the apartment took on the peaceful silence of a library, for this was the time Wendy devoted to her books—and I do mean "devoted" since reading was as close to religious devotion as she could get.
In the past, she read everything from historical romances to gothic horror, from Chaucer to Dan Brown and from Macbeth to The Godfather. Once retired, her favorite genre became cozy mysteries. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term, cozies, as they are also known, are a form of PG-rated crime fiction with no explicit sex or violence. The crimes usually take place in small, quaint communities and are solved by amateur sleuths, more often than not, a middle-aged or elderly woman like Agatha Christie's Jane Marple.
Since moving into her Golden Years apartment, Wendy amassed an impressive collection of cozy mysteries, all of which she read on her Kindle. Although she had always preferred old-fashioned, printed-on-paper books, the Amazon e-reader was more suitable to her current lifestyle. For only $9.99 a month—a sum even someone living on social security could afford—she was able to download as many titles as she wanted.
"Not only is it more economical," she told a fellow resident at the retirement community, "but it's better for the environment. No trees die in the making of a digital book. And, what's even better, you can increase the size of the font to make it easier to read, which is something you can't do with a printed book."
One evening, after a meal of meatloaf, green beans and chocolate pudding, she hurried out of the dining room and back to her apartment. On the surface, it seemed no different than any other day, but it was special to Wendy. Her favorite author, Philomena Allardyce, had just released a new book, and the elderly woman could not wait to start reading it. The pajama-clad reader sat back on her chair, turned on her Kindle and went to the menu. The newly downloaded novel, Death of the Vicar's Wife, was at the top of the list. With giddy anticipation, she opened the file.
Like all of Philomena Allardyce's books, this one was set in an idyllic rural village in England. Although a highly experienced detective chief inspector and a competent detective sergeant were working on the case, it would be Agatha Wickwire, an intuitive pensioner, who would eventually solve it. The fictional sleuth, like Wendy herself, was a retired librarian who, over the years, had managed to read thousands of the books in the village library and relied on the knowledge she gleaned from them to solve crimes.
Although the author's biography, which appeared at the end of every one of her novels, was light on specific details, Wendy imagined the London-born writer was much like her fictional crime solver. She often pictured the elderly writer sitting at an old-fashioned typewriter somewhere in the Cotswolds, creating characters loosely based on people who lived around her.
"Philomena Allardyce may have been born in London," Wendy said to her Siamese cat, Lady, "but I'll bet she now lives in an adorable cottage with a thatched roof."
The first chapter of the book—which in the printed version was eighteen pages long—introduced the vicar, a man of forty-two years, and his twenty-eight-year-old wife. It was not until the end of the third chapter that the postman discovered the young woman's body. Eager as Wendy was to jump into the investigation of the wife's death, it was ten o'clock, and she was a stickler for adhering to a schedule.
"It'll have to wait until tomorrow evening, Lady," she announced as she turned off the power to the Kindle. "It's bedtime, and, besides, I don't want to rush through the book. I want to savor every word. Who knows when another Agatha Wickwire mystery will be released?"
* * *
Three months later, after watching a quixotic, happily-ever-after Christmas movie on the Hallmark Channel—despite it being the middle of June—Wendy Greenlaw went to the dining room where she noticed an unfamiliar face at the table where she frequently sat.
"Hello," the newcomer said cheerfully. "My name is Jewel. Jewel Langhorne. I just moved in today."
Wendy took a seat and introduced herself. As the two senior citizens waited for the meal to be served, the usual biographical information was exchanged. Jewel was a widow with a grown son in California. She grew up in New Jersey and worked as an editor for Burgess Press' New York office until retiring six months earlier.
"I tried to keep my house—a lovely old Colonial in Bergen County—but the maintenance got to be too much. Not only did I need to hire a handyman to see to all the repairs, but I also had to find people to take care of the lawn in the spring and summer, rake the leaves in the autumn and shovel the snow in the winter. I thought about going into a low-maintenance condo, but I opted to come here where I wouldn't feel so cut off from the rest of the world."
Wendy nodded her head as though in agreement.
"Of course, I could have gone to live with my son, but he and his wife both travel a lot with their jobs. And, deep down, I'm an East Coast girl; I don't know how I'd like living in the West."
The kitchen staff then appeared with the food.
"Ah, here comes dinner!" Jewel exclaimed. "How's the food here?"
"Bland. The cooks don't want to upset anyone's stomach, so they use very few spices."
"I see what you mean," the newcomer said, after taking a forkful of spaghetti. "This sauce has no basil, garlic, oregano or even salt."
Despite the insipidness of the food, the two women ate everything on their plates. As they waited for dessert, Jewel began talking about her hobbies.
"I enjoy all sorts of needlework: crocheting, knitting and needlepoint. Right now, I'm working on a counted cross-stitch sampler. What about you? Do you like to do crafts?"
"Not particularly. I like to do word puzzles to keep my mind active, but my favorite pastime ever since I was a little girl is reading."
"Oh? What sort of books?"
"All sorts. I must have read several thousand in my life. Now, I read mostly cozy mysteries. My favorites are by an author named Philomena Allardyce. Have you ever heard of her?"
"Sure. The Agatha Wickwire mysteries are published by Burgess Press. It's not general knowledge, but those books are actually written by Hunter Rutland."
"You must be mistaken. Philomena Allardyce wrote them. Her biography is at the end of every book."
"I'm sorry to disillusion you, but Philomena Allardyce is not a real person. The name is a nom de plume. Hunter Rutland writes those books. He goes under different names for different genres. He uses the pen name Jeb Beaudine when he writes true crime and Philomena Allardyce for his Agatha Wickwire mysteries. He only uses his real name for his Detective Grimsley stories."
"Where did you hear such nonsense?" Wendy asked, refusing to believe the former editor's words.
"I edited several of Hunter's books when I worked at Burgess. Trust me. He's the man behind Agatha Wickwire."
"Why would he deliberately deceive people?"
"It's not deception. It's done all the time. Stephen King wrote several books as Richard Bachman. Nora Roberts used the pen name J.D. Robb. Anne Rice used Anne Rampling and A. N. Roquelaure. J.K. Rowling of Harry Potter fame sometimes writes as Robert Galbraith. Samuel Clemens wrote as both Mark Twain and Thomas Jefferson Snodgrass. Even Benjamin Franklin used a pseudonym, Mrs. Silence Dogood. Charles Dickens, Agatha Christie, Louisa May Alcott, the Brontë Sisters and so many more occasionally wrote under different names."
"I still think it's dishonest. Why bother having a biography of the author on a book jacket or at the end of a digital file if it's a lie?"
"Because it's all about marketing. A cozy mystery written by a sweet, little old lady from England is going to be more appealing to the targeted audience than one written by a former advertising man from New York City. But in Hunter's case, the pseudonyms were kept secret; he preferred it that way."
Wendy took her time eating the devil's food cake served for dessert that night. It was not that she particularly enjoyed the rich chocolate flavor, but she was not nearly as eager to return to her Kindle as she usually was.
Hunter Rutland couldn't have written those books! the disillusioned woman thought, feeling like a child who just learned her parents, not Santa Claus, put her presents beneath the Christmas tree.
Since Wendy did not own a computer or tablet, whenever she wanted to access the Internet, she used one of three desktops in the Golden Years' recreation center. Unfortunately, there were usually other residents ahead of her, all wanting to keep up with family and friends via social media. Such was the case that evening when she wanted to check the truth of Jewel Langhorne's story. Rather than wait until one of the Dells was free, she decided to come back the next day.
However, when she returned to her apartment and settled down into her chair with her latest novel, she could not concentrate on what she was reading.
Philomena Allardyce can't be a figment of some writer's imagination. Jewel must be mistaken.
Although she had no intention of reading the entire book, she went to the Kindle store and downloaded Hunter Rutland's latest novel, Dead Reckoning. She quickly went to the author's bio at the end of the file. All she was able to learn about him was that he was born and raised in the Bronx and took a job at an advertising agency after graduating from Columbia before becoming a novelist. The last line of the biography claimed he lived in Manhattan where he was writing his eighth novel.
"It says nothing about his writing under other names."
Curious, she began reading the first chapter of the book. The use of more adult language aside, Wendy noticed the writing style was similar to that of Philomena. It could be the same writer. She then went back to the Kindle store and searched for a book by Jeb Beaudine, the other pseudonym Hunter supposedly used. According to his biography, Jeb was a retired police detective from Dallas, Texas. Reading through the first chapter of his book, she found similarities in all three authors' work.
"Jewel might be right. Hunter Rutland could have written the Agatha Wickwire mysteries!"
* * *
Bright and early the next morning, Wendy got out of bed, dressed and hurried to the rec center. With most of the residents either still sleeping or having breakfast, it was the one time of day when the computers were free.
Of the three names she googled, only the search for Hunter Rutland revealed more than the scant details found in the other two authors' official biographies. Reading through various newspaper articles, she learned that he had been married and divorced four times but had no children. He was described by one journalist as a "man's man," which Wendy took to mean that he was a drinker and a womanizer.
"He is quite handsome, though," she grudgingly admitted, looking at a photograph of the writer taken at a book signing two years earlier. "With that dark hair and mustache, he reminds me of a young Ernest Hemingway."
The resemblance, however, did not extend beyond physical appearance. Hunter's writing was nowhere near the caliber of Hemingway's.
She was about to end her search and head for the dining room when her eyes briefly went to the next item on the Google search results page. It was an article from a local paper that read HUNTER RUTLAND TO MAKE PERSONAL APPEARANCE AT BARNES & NOBLE.
Is this a link to an old notice? she wondered; but when she clicked on it, she learned the book signing was scheduled for the following week.
The Barnes & Noble store was located in a mall only twenty minutes from Golden Years. She could easily take the bus there. Perhaps Jewel would accompany her since the former editor once worked with the man. When Wendy asked her at dinner that evening, she was surprised by the answer.
"I don't know that I'd want to see him again," Jewel replied. "I don't like the man. I never have."
"Why not?"
"I'll tell you what. I'll go with you to the signing and introduce you to him. That way you can form your own opinion."
It was not until the two women arrived at Barnes & Noble and saw a line of six people awaiting the author's arrival that Wendy realized she had no book for him to sign.
"I guess I ought to buy one of his novels," she said. "I can't very well ask him to sign my Kindle."
Rather than spend over twenty dollars on a hardcover edition of his latest book, Wendy purchased a paperback of one of his earlier works and got on the back of the line.
"When is he going to get here?" she asked. "The signing was supposed to start ten minutes ago."
"Don't worry," Jewel advised. "He'll show up. He's always late. That man has no consideration for other people."
It was another fifteen minutes before the handsome, dark-haired author strutted into the bookstore and sat down at the table the store manager had provided for him. Wendy kept a keen eye on him as he signed each book. If the reader was a young or middle-aged man, he was friendly and exuded an I'm-just-one-of-the-boys attitude. If it was an attractive woman, he turned on his masculine charm whereas if it was a plain woman or an old man, he would simply sign his name and return the book with a curt "thank you" as a dismissal.
Finally, the two women from Golden Years stepped up to the table. Wendy could smell the alcohol on his breath as she handed him her paperback.
"Hello, Hunter," Jewel said.
"Do I know you?" he asked. There was a sudden spark of recognition, and he added, "You work for Burgess, don't you?"
"Not anymore. I'm retired now."
"Then why haven't you moved down to Florida like the rest of the blue-haired old biddies do?" he laughed.
Jewel glanced at Wendy, her expression showing her distaste.
"Ah!" Hunter said, seeing the cover of the paperback. "Twice Dead? That's an oldie but goodie. Aren't you interested in buying Dead Reckoning?"
"I already purchased the Kindle edition."
As the author opened the book and started scribbling his name on the title page with a black Sharpie, Wendy summoned the courage to bring up the subject that brought her to the mall that morning.
"I really wanted to meet you since I'm a big fan of your Philomena Allardyce books."
Hunter's head shot up, and his Ernest Hemingway eyes glared at her.
"I don't know what you're talking about, lady."
"Philomena Allardyce. Isn't that one of your pen names? Don't you write the Agatha Wickwire mysteries?"
"I can't imagine where you heard that ridiculous rumor," the author said, looking not at Wendy but at Jewel.
"The same place I heard you also write under the name Jeb Beaudine."
Hunter pushed the paperback across the table and said through clenched teeth, "Here's your autograph. Now, step aside. People are waiting in line behind you."
There was no smile or word of thanks. He had not even finished signing his name.
As the two ladies from Golden Years were walking out of the bookstore, Jewel turned to her companion and asked, "Well? What do you think of him?"
"I think he's an insufferable ass!"
"You got that right! Now you know why I didn't want to see him again."
* * *
"I can't believe a man like that created such a wonderful character as Agatha Wickwire," Wendy declared that night at dinner.
"He's a writer," Jewel explained. "That's what they do. They make things up. Maybe your beloved crime-solving librarian was inspired by Hunter's mother or grandmother."
"Ugh! I can't imagine having him for a son."
"Me either. Thank God my own boy turned out to be a warm, caring person with respect for people," the former editor said and then changed the subject. "I wonder what's for dessert tonight."
Wendy, however, was in no mood to talk about food. Rather, she continued her polemic against the author.
"I was reading some of that paperback I purchased, Twice Dead. I'm no prude, but the language! Not only is his dialogue extremely scurrilous, but the kinky sex scenes are much too descriptive. And I don't even want to discuss the horrid, gruesome deaths."
"Then don't," Jewel said with a dimpled smile. "Forget about Hunter Rutland. He's not worth getting upset over. There are so many good authors out there who write wonderful books. If you'd like, I can recommend some."
By the time the carrot cake with cream cheese frosting—one of Wendy's favorites—was brought out, her anger had dissipated. She was even able to make jokes about the author's contemptible behavior.
"No wonder he was divorced four times," she laughed. "Why would any woman in her right mind stay with him?"
"He is good-looking, and he's rich! And I have to give him credit for his work ethic. The man turns out more books in a year than James Patterson."
"I suppose you're right, but I don't think his prolificacy gives him the right to treat people the way he does."
"I agree," Jewel said, finishing the last of her dessert. "I don't know about you, but I've had enough of Hunter Rutland for one day. I'm going back to my apartment, where I'll put a movie on Netflix and work on my sampler. Want to come?"
"Thanks. Maybe some other time. I'm in the middle of a book and I'm about to learn the identity of the killer."
"Not an Agatha Wickwire mystery, I hope."
"No, It's called Murder in an Irish Churchyard, and it's written by a woman named Carlene O'Connor—at least I hope she wrote it," Wendy laughed. "I'd hate to learn it was written by some macho jerk like Hunter Rutland."
* * *
The following evening when Wendy Greenlaw entered the dining room, she noticed her usual table was empty. She scanned the room for Jewel Langhorne's face, but the former editor was nowhere to be seen. It was not until the kitchen staff brought out the roast chicken and mashed potatoes, that she began to worry.
I hope she's not ill. Maybe I'll stop by her apartment and check on her after dinner.
When she arrived at Jewel's unit, she noticed several members of the housekeeping staff leaving and entering. Some carried boxes out and placed them in one of the retirement community's golf carts.
"What's going on?" she asked Alphonse, a young man who worked on the janitorial staff.
"We're removing Mrs. Langhorne's belongings and putting them in storage until her son decides what to do with them."
"Why? What's happened to Jewel?"
"I'm afraid she passed away during the night."
Wendy was stunned.
"I had dinner with her last evening. She seemed fine."
"That's the way it happens sometimes. From what the maids are saying, the poor woman had a bad heart. They found her pills on the table beside the bed. Were you two close?"
"Not really. I only met her a couple of days ago. But I liked her. She seemed like such a nice person."
"I'm sorry for your loss, Miss Greenlaw. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to work before my boss thinks I'm goofing off."
Wendy returned to her apartment and, still sticking to her routine, showered, donned her fleece robe over her flannel pajamas and sat in her recliner. As usual, the Siamese cat jumped up in her lap. But when she turned on her Kindle, she did not begin reading her latest download, Kathy Manos Penn's Castles, Catnip & Murder. She was far too saddened by the latest death at Golden Years to concentrate on a cozy mystery, even one about a retired woman who had the unique ability to talk to animals and solved crimes with the help of her cat, Christie, and her dog, Dickens.
"I ought to be used to this, Lady," she said, wiping a tear from her cheek with the sleeve of her bathrobe. "Death is pretty common in a retirement community. But Jewel's is different. It was so unexpected, and she wasn't nearly as old as many of the other residents. She was younger than I am, in fact. I suppose I ought to let that be a lesson to me. Never take tomorrow for granted."
That said, she skipped through the introductory material in her book to the first chapter and began to read.
It was nearly nine o'clock when Wendy, immersed in Leta Parker's world of Astonbury in the Cotswolds, heard a soft knocking on her door.
"Who on earth could that be at this hour?"
She put her cat down, turned on the outside light and looked through the peephole of her door. She was amazed to find Hunter Rutland on her stoop. Leaving the chain lock in place, she opened the door a crack.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"I wanted to apologize for the way I behaved at the book signing yesterday."
He then showed her a hardcover edition of Death of the Vicar's Wife, which was opened to the title page.
"I've signed it for you. See, Philomena Allardyce. Can I come in and give it to you?"
Wendy's initial instinct was to tell him to just hand it to her through the narrow opening, but then she remembered her manners.
"All right," she said and unlocked the door. "This really wasn't necessary. You could have simply ...."
Suddenly, Hunter grabbed her, and his hands covered her mouth, preventing her from screaming.
"Stop fighting!" he hissed in her ear. "Don't make it hard on yourself."
Ignoring his warning, the old woman continued to struggle.
"Why?" she managed to ask after temporarily wrenching her head free.
"Do you think I want anyone to know about the others? Jeb Beaudine, a hardboiled police detective, is one thing, but Philomena Allardyce, an old bag from London? I have an image to protect. That's why you have to join your friend, that nosy editor. She should have kept her damned mouth shut."
He killed Jewel! the frightened woman thought as she felt her strength slipping away. And he's going to kill me. I don't stand a chance against him.
"Stop! You mustn't do this."
Although Wendy could not see his face since Hunter had grabbed her from behind, she noticed the distinct change in his voice. It was much more high-pitched and feminine in nature, and the accent was British, not New York.
"You keep outta this," Hunter cried.
"Jeb, do something," the female voice implored. "You were a cop. You can't let him kill again."
He's insane, Wendy realized.
"The little lady is right," a third voice agreed, in a thick Texas drawl. "I looked the other way with the editor. I suppose she had it coming. She betrayed your confidence. But this one, she doesn't deserve to die."
"Will the both of you just shut up?"—it was Hunter again—"I don't have a choice. If I let her go now, she'll call the police. If I go to prison, the two of you will go with me."
A struggle ensued, but it was not a physical one between the author and Wendy Greenlaw. It was a mental one between three different personalities living in the same body.
Suddenly, the arms that held the old woman captive let go of her.
"Quick!" Philomena Allardyce urged. "Run. I don't know how long I can stay in control."
Wendy did not hesitate. She ran out of the apartment in her bathrobe and slippers. Once outside, she did not bother knocking on doors to see who would let her in; rather, she headed for the kitchen where the staff was washing dishes and scrubbing pots and pans.
"Help me!" she managed to say before collapsing to the ground, exhausted by both physical exertion and the fear of death.
* * *
Hunter Rutland was never tried for Jewel Langhorne's murder. Once psychiatrists evaluated his mental state, he was put into a facility for the criminally insane. Just when Wendy finally put the ugly incident behind her, she received a call from one of the doctors who was treating the author.
"He's been asking to see you," the psychiatrist informed her.
"Why?"
"Perhaps he wants to apologize to you. He's on medication now, so you have nothing to fear."
Although the thought of seeing that Ernest Hemingway lookalike terrified her, curiosity got the better of her fear.
"Can you guarantee that I won't be hurt?"
"Yes. There will be bars between the two of you."
The following week, Wendy walked into the hospital and was led to a room for visitors. She waited only a few minutes for Hunter to appear.
"You came." The high-pitched voice with the English accent confirmed that it was Philomena, not Hunter. "I wasn't sure you would want to see any of us again."
"I was curious. I assume you were the one who wanted to see me. What do you want?"
"I want you to save me."
"I can't do that."
"I saved your life; now you must save mine."
"You—or rather he—is a murderer."
"I don't give a damn about him. He can rot in hell for all I care. He was doomed the moment he murdered his ex-wife—the first one."
"And you didn't stop him?"
"How could I? Jeb and I didn't come into existence until after he committed that murder."
That explains a lot of things, Wendy thought. After he killed his ex-wife, Hunter's mind fractured. Jeb Beaudine and Philomena Allardyce are more than just pseudonyms. In his mind, they're separate people.
"You're the only one who can help me," Philomena continued. "You're so like Agatha Wickwire. It's as though I created my heroine with you in mind. That's why you have to take over for me. You must save me—and her. Without me, there will be no more Agatha Wickwire mysteries."
"If I could save you without freeing him, I would."
"You can."
The smile on Hunter Rutland's handsome face soon disappeared, replaced by a scowl.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded to know. "Did you come to gloat? Damn you! I should have killed you when I had the chance."
But Wendy paid no attention to the author's ranting and raving. She calmly got out of her seat and without looking back, left the hospital and returned to Golden Years.
* * *
Ah! Here it is, she thought when she saw the UPS deliveryman at her door. I got it back at last.
She took the package into the kitchen and opened it. After disposing of the box and packing material, she plugged the repaired Dell laptop into a wall outlet and pressed the power button. When prompted, she entered her Windows password: WICKWIRE.
Double-clicking a shortcut on her desktop opened a Word file. Wendy Greenlaw, writing under the pen name Philomena Allardyce, then briefly glanced at the title of the document, DEATH OF THE VILLAGE CONSTABLE, CHAPTER 2, put her hands above the keyboard and began to type.
Salem, no one is going to believe you wrote novels under the pennames Stephen King, James Patterson and John Grisham.
