If you’ve never driven past a synagogue parking lot and thought to yourself, “What a great place to dump a dead body,” then clearly you’re not the late, great Harry Kemelman, whose career as a leading American Jewish novelist began with that gruesome idea.

Your parents probably read every volume of the mystery series Kemelman wrote from the 1960s to the 1990s, starting with his first novel, “Friday the Rabbi Slept Late.” The novels sold millions of copies in the United States and around the world. Kemelman was one of the most influential Jewish thinkers and teachers in the late 20th century, especially for non-Orthodox Jews.

Harry Kemelman was my neighbor in the late 1980s in Marblehead, Massachusetts, a small seaside town north of Boston replete with candy-colored houses built for sea captains and chandlers from the 1600s on. I was in my late 20s and had just sold my first novel to Simon & Schuster. A mutual acquaintance thought that these two Jewish writers shouldn’t be strangers, and Kemelman, a half century my senior, became my mentor and friend.

Harry and Anne Kemelman lived in a modest suburban home in Marblehead a mile or so from Old Town, where I lived. We hit it off quickly—I was thrilled to meet such an accomplished author and I think he was happy to have someone to talk to about writing books.

His wife, Anne, would make us Rob Roys—a classic, old-timey beverage consisting of Scotch, sweet vermouth and bitters, something I’d never had before and certainly never had again. Anne Kemelman told me that she typed out all of her husband’s manuscripts—“Otherwise,” she said, “I’d have to wait too long to read them.” And then she would excuse herself, presumably because she’d heard all these stories before.

We’d sit in his living room, which to my surprise wasn’t decorated with posters of his book covers or his Edgar Award for Best First Novel. I admired his modesty and told myself I would emulate it if ever I became successful. He told me stories about how he got going as a writer, something any newbie would love to hear from a top gun like him.

Harry Kemelman had been writing mystery stories for Ellery Queen magazine (before your parents’ time; maybe your grandparents were fans). He was successful enough, but the stories seemed like a waste of time and talent, even though they paid the bills.

After World War II, he told me, Boston rent controls meant that young couples couldn’t find housing in the city. So increasing numbers of Jewish couples made their way to towns where few Jews had ever lived. Marblehead was one of them.

Kemelman told me he was fascinated by the idea of Jews actually building a temple in an area that had never known Jews before. He wrote a nonfiction manuscript about the project and sent it off to a publisher in New York. The publisher turned it down, Kemelman said, but added, “If you’re ever in New York, drop by my office.”

Those aren’t words a writer needs to hear twice, so Kemelman immediately jumped in his car and made the pre-Interstate highway drive down U.S. 1 to the big city. The editor said, “It’s well written, but no one’s going to care about a temple. Too bad you couldn’t combine the story with a murder mystery!”

The men had a good laugh over that and Kemelman headed back to Marblehead, unsure of what to do next. But when he passed the site of the temple, he suddenly had the macabre thought that a temple parking lot would be a great place to hide a dead body.

And thus the Rabbi Small series of novels was born, combining Kemelman’s interest in Jewish religion and culture with his background as a mystery writer. He was way too self-effacing to tell me himself, but the book received phenomenal reviews from The New York Times (“could be the most important debut of a detective in recent years”) and the Saturday Review (“a winner all the way”).

Kemelman simply mentioned that the book had “pretty good word of mouth.” That was an understatement. The novel featured an angry synagogue board asking its rabbi to explain the corpse in the parking lot. Along with its sequels, the Rabbi Small books sold in the millions. Rabbi Small even became the subject of a TV movie with Jackie Gleason’s “Honeymooners” sidekick Art Carney.

Kemelman said he found It depressing that everyone he met assumed he was a rabbi, since he knew so much about Judaism. They only would have asked that because of the state of Jewish education at the time, which he described as “deplorable.” Part of his mission with the Rabbi Small books was to fill the gap that mid-20th century Jewish education had created.

He was also the most fastidious writer I’ve ever known. He might write a 16-page portrait of a character who had no speaking lines, like a cop who brings the murder weapon to the chief of police. Maybe that level of dedication to craft had a lot to do with his success.

Kemelman didn’t have an elaborate writer’s studio. Instead, he said, he liked to work on his novels in fast food restaurants just outside of town. No one bothered him and it got him out of the house.

His novels tended to follow the same formula. A murder happens in or near Barnard’s Crossing, a town based loosely on Marblehead. Rabbi Small somehow gets the blame. He uses Talmudic ingenuity to get his always-unhappy synagogue board (some things never change) off his back and solve the crime.

Kemelman was very encouraging about my own career. I’d published a book about my ba’al teshuva experiences with Ktav and was working on a sequel to the novel that Simon & Schuster had bought. I remember not just the conversations we had but the generosity of spirit that animated those discussions. I wasn’t a famous writer or a peer on anything like that. I was just a kid trying to get started in a difficult and rather lonely business. But he made half a dozen or more afternoons available to me, just to talk writing and encourage me. I’ve always tried to do the same thing when I meet people who are pursuing their own creative dreams.

And, truth be told, every time I’ve passed a synagogue parking lot for the past 40 years, I’ve had the same thought.

This would be a great place to leave a dead body.

New York Times bestselling author Michael Levin runs www.MeaningBooks.com and www.JewishLeadersBooks.com, a leading publisher of Jewish memoirs.