When I was a child I devoured mystery novels about the Hardy boys, two squeaky-clean teen detectives who solved surprisingly serious crimes plaguing the otherwise sleepy small town of Bayside, a fictional locale on the Atlantic coast of the United States. But eventually I learned of a crime in these novels even more shocking than the counterfeiting, smuggling, drug running, and murder that the Hardy boys routinely uncovered: the author, Franklin W. Dixon, was an imposter, a mere pseudonym for many different writers churning out titles for the Stratemeyer Syndicate, a fiction factory that mass-produced novels for children and teenagers. I felt betrayed. And foolish. Frank and Joe Hardy could sniff out an international spy ring in a week, but this ruse operated under my nose for years, and even then someone else blew the whistle on Dixon for me.