Page 74 of The Mystery Guest

She nods slowly. “Mrs. Grimthorpe picked her for her discretion, amongst other things. My mother was good at keeping a low profile, brilliant at keeping secrets, too.” Ms. Sharpe ponders the photo on the wall. “Grimthorpe was never a writer, not really. In the old days, before he got writer’s block, he’d come up with outrageous plots and intrigues, which he’d deliver to my mother in long verbal rants. She’d coax his madness into something sane and novelistic, something that intrigued on the page. She was so good at it she turned him into a bestselling writer. But she was always the real magic behind his books.”

“He kept her a secret,” I say.

“Yes,” Ms. Sharpe confirms. “Mrs. Grimthorpe knew the truth, but no one else.”

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?” Stark asks. “When you met me at the station, you said nothing about your mother and you refused to say a word about what Mr. Grimthorpe was announcing.”

Ms. Sharpe crosses behind her desk and takes a seat in her pristine desk chair. “I couldn’t tell you because I signed a contract,” she says. She gestures to the two white chairs in front of her. “Please,” she says. “Sit.”

Detective Stark complies. I take a seat beside her.

Ms. Sharpe interlaces her hands and places them on her desk. “I’ve known for many years that my mother was his ghostwriter. I begged her to ask for proper compensation and a share of J.D.’s royalties, but she was a single mother terrified of her boss and of losing a stable job. She knew she deserved more, but she couldnever bring herself to confront him or his wife. She didn’t want to face their wrath.” Ms. Sharpe goes quiet as she stares through the open door into Mr. Grimthorpe’s chaotic study. “Such a literate man, and yet he could never write a decent book. So damaged.”

“Damaged and powerful,” I say. “He had a way of making you feel special and yet small at the very same time.”

Ms. Sharpe’s eyes go wide. “That’s exactly right. When my mother died last year without ever receiving proper compensation for her writing, my anger seethed. She’d scrimped all her life. She’d been paid a secretary’s salary for decades. Fear kept her quiet, but that didn’t work on me. I devised a plan.”

Detective Stark and I exchange a look. “Go on,” she says.

“I quit my MBA and took over as Mr. Grimthorpe’s personal secretary. He was thrilled. He had continuity and secrecy, all in a younger, prettier model. He was foolish enough to think that I, too, could write, but I’ve never had my mother’s gift for storytelling. When he figured that out and threatened to fire me, I threatened him right back.”

“Threatened him how?” Detective Stark asks.

“I told him I was going to reveal him for the fraud he was, that I’d tell the entire world my mother was the real author of his books,” she says as she gestures to the cubbyholes filled with manuscripts. “I threatened to sue him for every penny he ever made…unless he met my terms.”

“Which were?” I ask.

“A lump-sum fee of five million dollars payable to me, and one hundred percent of his royalties going forward for every book my mother wrote.”

“Meaning all of them,” Stark says.

“Yes,” Ms. Sharpe replies.

“How did he react?” I ask.

“With icy calm. I think he knew he had it coming.” Ms. Sharpelays her hands on the closed laptop in front of her. “He agreed to my terms. He didn’t even try to convince me to stay quiet about my mother’s contributions. But in return, he had a few requests of his own.”

“Which were?” I ask.

“He insisted on publicizing the news himself. He wanted to control the message.”

“Hence the press conference at the hotel,” Stark notes.

“Yes. And he made me sign a contract that specified if I let anything leak before the big event, our entire deal would be null and void.”

“Meaning no money for you,” Stark says.

“Meaning no credit for my mother,” Ms. Sharpe replies, her voice razor-sharp. “That’s why I couldn’t say anything when you asked about what Mr. Grimthorpe had planned to say at the press conference. I didn’t want to nullify the contract.”

Ms. Sharpe falls silent as she produces the contract from a file drawer and hands it to Stark, who peruses it somberly and then nods.

“What happens now?” I ask. “Since dead men tell no tales.”

“I’ve consulted a lawyer. Seems I’m in a bit of a bind,” Ms. Sharpe replies. “If I reveal the truth, no deal, even after death.”

“So getting credit for your mother means forfeiting all financial gain?” I say.

“Correct,” Ms. Sharpe replies with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her feline eyes.

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