The Paper Detective by E Joan Sims

Mystery novelist Paisley Sterling takes time off to enjoy the holidays only to be interrupted by her agent. Seems like Leonard Paisley, the fictitious detective who is supposed to be writing her mystery novels, is required to make a personal appearance. Paisley would love to tell the world that “Leonard” is a fake and she does all the hard work, but her agent insists they keep up with the sham until her career is assured. “Leonard” has to be found.Paisley seeks the advice of her proper southern belle mother and hip college age daughter, and then goes out in search of the man she believes will be the perfect Leonard. When a snow storm gets in the way, she finds herself marooned in a remote log cabin with a man who is perfect in many ways – something Paisley didn’t exactly expect.Burt Atkins reluctantly agrees to be Leonard for a day and the command performance goes off without a hitch – until Burt becomes a target for murder.Determined to discover why someone would want to kill Leonard -- or Burt, Paisley begins to unravel yet another strange puzzle and ends up facing one of the deadliest foes she has ever encountered. More than just a mystery – each novel in the Paisley Sterling series is a song of the South – full of heart and soul. The love of these three strong, intelligent women – mothers and daughters – for each other and the land they live on is heartwarming and
inspiring.

Read the First Chapter of The Paper Detective

I lounged back against the comfortable arm of the red chintz sofa in the library and gazed out the double French doors at the snow. Flakes as big as goose feathers had fallen softly and steadily all night long. Deep pillowy drifts piled up next to the orchard fence and around the base of the fruit trees, and according to the weatherman, more snow was on the way.

Three mating pairs of cardinals hunted and pecked on the sparkling diamond-white surface where Cassie had tossed out some bread crusts earlier. Only a few crumbs remained.

The bright red birds on the glistening white snow made me think of a fairy tale my Grandmother Howard used to read to me about a princess with snow-white skin. She had pricked her finger with a needle. When that drop of red blood appeared on the fairest of hands, a whole kingdom had fallen to sleep for one hundred years.

I yawned and turned back to the crackling fire that burned merrily in the big hearth. My bowl of buttered popcorn was almost gone, but I lacked the energy to go back to the kitchen for more. I was considering a serious nap when the phone rang.

When you have a beautiful, unattached, twenty-year-old daughter, there is only the remotest chance that you will ever have to answer the telephone. The possibility of the call being for anyone other than her is even smaller. Therefore, I was surprised and even a little annoyed when I heard Cassie yelling at me from the hallway.

“Mom! Telephone! It’s New York — Pam.”

Ordinarily, I would have loved to hear from Pamela Alison Winslow. She was my agent and more than a little responsible for making sure that the whole wide world read my mystery novels. Unfortunately, she was also the one who insisted that I use the pen name of Leonard Paisley and let that imaginary schmuck take all the credit for my hard work. I did realize, however, that a rough, tough, hard-boiled detective could make more money selling books than a middle-aged woman who is afraid of spiders — at least for the time being.

Nobody seemed to mind when it was just little old me writing children’s books. Bartholomew the Blue-eyed Cricket had gotten me and Cassie through the lean years after my husband — her father — had disappeared from our home in San Romero. We had escaped the worst of the revolution in that beautiful, but politically torn country and gone to Manhattan to live. It was there that Pam, who had been my college roommate, suggested Bartholomew might be our meal ticket instead of simply an entertaining bedtime story for my little daughter.

Ten years of insects and small, furry rodents was about all I could squeeze out of my imagination, and once again, Pam saved my bacon by suggesting I write mysteries. I, excuse me, Leonard was a big hit from the start. We had just published our third book.

My new source of income had allowed me to move back to Meadowdale Farm in western Kentucky where I grew up. My elegant and stylish mother, Anna Howard Sterling, was delighted that I was home to stay, even though we had our confrontations from time to time — mostly about my being neither elegant nor stylish.

It was three weeks before Christmas, and I was taking a well-deserved vacation in order to be able to really enjoy having Cassie home from university for the holidays.

“Damn it, Pam!” I said as I picked up the phone. “I thought we agreed I could take some time off? I told you to tell everybody I’ve gone fishing.”

“Fishing?” she protested. “According to the weatherman, it’s sixteen degrees there!”

“Ice fishing. You cut a hole in the ice, warm the worms in your mouth, and . . .”

“Paisley, you know I wouldn’t bother you unless it was absolutely necessary.”

“No!” I insisted.

“Now, Paisley, you’re being childish.”

“No. No. No.” I shook my head vigorously even though she couldn’t see me.

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask you,” she wheedled.

“Pam, I recognize that tone of voice. It’s the same one you used in college when you wanted . . .”

“That history term paper was mine from start to finish. I didn’t use any of your notes. Come on, Paisley. Just give it a listen, please?”

“Okay, okay.” I conceded. “It is almost Christmas. I haven’t had time to shop. Consider this your gift.”

“Great. Now, don’t say ‘no’ right away. Be reasonable and let me finish. Promise?”

“Oh, boy. I knew this was going to cost me. I should have gotten you something from K-Mart.”

“The feature writer from Pen and Ink magazine has contacted me. They want an interview with Leonard.”

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

“I asked you not to interrupt,” she said.

“Are you out of your tiny little mind?”

“Ten thousand dollars worth of out of my mind,” she chortled.

That did put a new light on things.

“You want me to grow a mustache?” I asked.

Pam laughed. “It wouldn’t hurt; but then again, it won’t help. No, we’ll have to find someone else to be Leonard. Got any ideas?”
“Pam, this is the craziest . . .”

“Oops, another call. Gotta go. Let me know when you find ‘Leonard.’ And remember, it’s not just the money. It’ll be terrific publicity.”

Cassie came in as I hung up the phone. Aggie, her temperamental Lhasa Apso, trailed despondently at her heels. The puppy knew her mistress was all dressed up to go somewhere without her, and when Cass plopped down on the sofa opposite mine, Aggie hopped up in her lap as if trying to anchor her down.

Cassandra looked beautiful. Hair the color of mahogany framed her perfect oval face and fell straight and shining past her shoulders. A light touch of eye shadow over her brown eyes made them appear even larger and more mysterious against her porcelain skin. The ankle-length burgundy velvet dress clung to her tall, slender body more than I would have liked it to, but I knew better than to say anything.

“Wow! You look terrific. What are you all dolled up for?”

“Nothing much. Danny’s taking me to a Christmas concert in Morgantown.”

“Hmm, Danny,” I muttered, as I tried to see him in Leonard’s skin.

“What?”

“Has Danny ever done any acting? High school play, community theater?”

“Sure. His stepfather showed me some pictures. He said Danny was the best Peter Pan ever.