by Noreen Wald
Praise for Noreen Wald
THE JAKE O’HARA MYSTERIES
“Murders multiply, but Jake proves up to the challenge. She sees through all the subterfuge and chicanery, solving a mind-boggling mystery in a burst of insight. All the characters are charmingly kooky and fun…a good beginning for a new series.”
– TheMysteryReader.com
“[Wald] writes with a light touch.”
– New York Daily News
“The author keeps the plot airy and the characters outlandish.”
– South Florida Sun-Sentinel
THE KATE KENNEDY MYSTERIES
“Sparkles like the South Florida sunshine...Kate Kennedy is a warm and funny heroine.”
– Nancy Martin, Author of the Blackbird Sisters Mysteries
“Miss Marple with a modern twist...[Wald] is a very funny lady!”
– Donna Andrews, Author of the Meg Langslow Mysteries
“A stylish and sophisticated Miss Marple, seeking justice in sunny South Florida instead of a rainy English Village, and meeting the most delightfully eccentric suspects in the process.”
– Victoria Thompson, Author of the Gaslight Mysteries
“Kate Kennedy’s wry wit, genuine kindness, and openness to adventure make her a sleuth to cherish. Death is a Bargain is another top-notch entry in a great series.”
– Carolyn Hart, Author of the Death on Demand Mysteries
Mysteries by Noreen Wald
The Jake O’Hara Series
GHOSTWRITER ANONYMOUS (#1)
THE LUCK OF THE GHOSTWRITER (#2)
A GHOSTWRITER TO DIE FOR (#3)
REMEMBRANCE OF GHOSTWRITERS PAST (#4)
GHOSTWRITER FOR HIRE (#5)
The Kate Kennedy Series
DEATH WITH AN OCEAN VIEW (#1)
DEATH OF THE SWAMI SCHWARTZ (#2)
DEATH IS A BARGAIN (#3)
DEATH STORMS THE SHORE (#4)
DEATH RIDES THE SURF (#5)
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Copyright
GHOSTWRITER ANONYMOUS
A Jake O’Hara Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
Second Edition | March 2016
Henery Press, LLC
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2016 by Noreen Wald
Author photograph by Matthew Holler
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-943390-65-6
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-943390-68-7
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-943390-66-3
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-943390-67-0
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To Steve, with love
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A writer works alone, but craves the company, advice and even dissent of other writers. Joyce Sweeney, an award-winning author of young adult novels, has been my editor, cheerleader and friend ever since I became a late entry in this writing game. I’m convinced that without Joyce, there’d be no Jake. Joyce’s Thursday Night Group includes some of the finest writing talent in South Florida. I thank my classmates for their candid critiques...both the rants and the raves! They are Jake’s literary godparents.
The following three members of the Thursday Night Group also served as the ghostwriter’s guardian angels. William S. Rea, M.D., a psychiatrist practicing in Boca Raton, Florida, answered my many medical concerns, regarding the physical and psychological “hows” and “whys” of my murders. Dennis Bailey not only answered my legal questions, but asked some salient ones of his own, keeping Jake on course. Gloria Rothstein, of Boca Raton, Florida, is a bestselling author of children’s books, my colleague and good friend. Gloria listened, edited, inspired...and even told me when the book ended. Otherwise, I might still be writing!
My old friend, Charlie Kelly, retired NYPD Detective, Robbery Squad, Queens, now living in Stuart, Florida, added authenticity to the fictional investigation. Doris Holland, of Vero Beach, Florida, has listened to—and championed—my wild ideas for almost forty years and Diane Dowling Dufour has been my sounding board for years.
Billy Reckdenwald’s many calls from New Jersey—from synopsis to final chapter—cheered his mother on. My deep appreciation goes to my niece and goddaughter, Susan Kavanagh, and my grandniece, Etta Kavanagh; both are inspirations for Jake, as well as two of my and Washington, D.C.’s finest editors.
Thanks to the Henery Press team for putting new life into Jake and Kate. A special thanks to my lead editor, Rachel Jackson. The new covers designed by Kendel Lynn are great.
Finally, thanks to my agent, Peter Rubie.
Any mistakes in Ghostwriter are the author’s, not her advisors’. And all the ghostwriters and other characters in the book are only figments of the author’s imagination.
One
“You could kill Wagner in the kitchen,” my mother said, “that way you could throw the bloody clothes in the washer and clean up everything in the sink. You know, use lots of Clorox. And don’t forget the dishwasher’s good for any weapons stained with clinging body tissues.” Mom: the meticulous murderer.
“We’ll talk about it after the company leaves,” I said. She looked disappointed. I gave her a hug. “Let’s not mix business with pleasure. Right now, why don’t you mix me a martini?”
“Okay, but let’s work on it later tonight for an hour or so.” Mom headed to the dining room bar. Over her shoulder she added, “Oh, Jake, some guy called while you were at Gristede’s. He wanted to discuss hiring you for a job, so I told him to drop by the party.” That’s my mother, hustling business in front of twenty guests.
“The thing of it is, you see, it’s a delicate matter; my employer would need the arrangement to be handled in the best of taste.”
The fop irked me. Who was he and what did he want from me? And why couldn’t he get to the point, if there was one?
“I represent…” He hesitated, brushing an invisible fleck from his well-cut Ralph Lauren jacket. I just knew he’d paid retail. No upstate discount malls for this fine specimen. 72nd and Madison—Polo’s flagship—would be his store of choice.
“Yes,” I prompted.
“Well, as I was saying, it’s a tad difficult to be discreet and...”
“Forget discreet, try forthcoming.” My voice had acquired a less-than-gracious edge. Not good. After all, he did represent a possible client and a cash advance. God knows I could use the business.
I flashed the full set of my just-bleached teeth—good thing today’s dentists took Visa —and motioned to the white leather couch. Rooms To Go...no payments for two years. By then, I could be dead or rich or anywhere in between. Credit, the American way. My instant attitude adjustment seemed to relax him. Smiling back, he pulled a slim gold card-holder from the inside pocket of his
navy jacket and handed me a cream-colored engraved card.
Clinking cocktail glasses and high-pitched chitchat surrounded us. Jonathan Arthur, I read, thinking, “Beware of men with two first names.” His address was on Sutton Place. “Hello, Jonathan.” I held out my right hand as my left tucked his card in my blue blazer pocket. It occurred to me that Jonathan and I were dressed like twins: gray gabardine pants, white linen collarless shirts, and black loafers. He’d added a tomato red scarf to his blazer’s breast pocket. Two dapper dandies. “I’m Jake O’Hara.”
“Indeed, you are.” He sat, then primly arranged his trouser folds.
Mom passed by with a tray full of drinks. I grabbed my long-overdue martini, mumbled thanks, took a gulp, plopped into the Casablanca chair next to the couch and gave Jonathan my full attention. “What can I do for you?” I suspected it was going to be a long night.
The cocktail hour was my mother’s longtime ritual. The third Friday of every month, she invited the lesser literary-lights of our acquaintance—we knew few bright lights—to our big prewar co-op on 92nd Street. Mom still believed that 1957 had been the last great year for songs. “Stars Fell on Alabama” filled the room as the lesser literary-lights discussed their yet-to-be published manuscripts. Everyone had a work-in-progress, some for as long as thirty or forty years.
Mr. Kim, the local greengrocer-cum-poet, and I had been comparing the patriotic verse of Walt Whitman and Rupert Brooke, when Jonathan Arthur had waltzed in, and Mom had two-stepped him over to me.
Graceful carriage in motion, military posture in repose. No slouch. Jonathan sat straight and tall, knees together, hands folded in his lap. Sister Mary Alice would have awarded him an A in deportment.
What can I do for you? had sounded like a reasonable query, worthy of an answer, but Jonathan appeared stumped. I tapped the rattan arm of my chair and drained the rest of my martini. Still smiling.
“This will be confidential—I need to know straight away, you don’t discuss your clients or your contracts?”
“Jonathan, I don’t do guest shots on The Today Show. If I blabbed, I wouldn’t be in business.” Of course, at the moment, I had neither a client nor a contract. That’s why Jonathan, however annoying, was being offered a cordial shoulder and another drink. He warmed to both.
“Let me be candid, Jake.”
Thank God. “Please do.” My smile would have to be chopped off.
“I’m familiar with some of your work. Oh, not from you, of course. But in our circle, the word gets out. My employer is most impressed with your ‘reported’ body of work. She thinks you kill cute.”
“I never thought of it that way. Jonathan, just who is your employer?”
He checked over both shoulders to make sure he wouldn’t be overheard; then in an awestruck tone, he whispered, “Kate Lloyd Connors.”
I, equally awed, said, “Wow. Cool.” America’s Queen of Mystery apparently wanted to hire me as a ghostwriter. Wait ’til my mother heard this.
Mom and all lovers of the murder-most-cozy genre adored Kate Lloyd Connors, panted for her next release, and had turned her into a multimillionaire bestselling author. Her heroine, society sleuth Suzy Q, was the widow of a wealthy, Irish-American senator. Any resemblance to Jackie O—definitely intended. Suzy’s murder suspects skied at Biarritz, sailed the Aegean, gambled at Monte Carlo and shopped at Bergdorf’s. Her victims included a reigning monarch’s secret mistress and the Secretary of State’s former husband. Wherever the international jet set met death, Suzy-on-the-spot solved the case. The cookie-cutter formula, illogical plots, and stereotypical characters were a lot of fun. I’d never confessed to Mom that I loved them too. Reading Kate Lloyd Connors, like devouring Milky Ways, was a secret vice.
“Well, Jonathan, I’d be delighted to have a chat with Ms. Connors.”
‘‘She’s most anxious to see you. Is luncheon at one tomorrow too soon? The address on my card is Kate’s townhouse. I live there.”
“Fine, I’ll see you then.”
Jonathan Arthur rose, almost clicked his heels in a half bow, and forged his way to the door.
Jeez, I thought, does the great Kate Lloyd Connors need a ghostwriter? Has she used ghostwriters before? And why me? Our styles were as disparate as our incomes. I looked forward to our meeting.
The party dwindled. I kissed Mr. Kim goodbye on my way to find my mother.
My mother had missed being Miss Rheingold almost forty years ago by twenty-seven votes. Finished second in a field of six fresh-faced beauties. All the contestants, on their ballot and billboard photographs, looked as if a glass of beer had never touched their virginal lips. Deciding that she’d lost her one shot at fame and fortune, Maura Foley married my father, Jack O’Hara, a former Marine equipped with a dress uniform and the requisite tall, dark, and handsome looks. The wedding at St. Patrick’s included six bridesmaids in pink and white polka dots and organdy picture hats. Two hundred guests attended the reception at the Park Central, hosted by my party-giving maternal grandparents. The bride went back to college. The groom went to work as a salesman. After twelve totally incompatible years, they divorced. The first in her family. My mother often referred to my father as the Irish Willie Loman, but they were more than civilized when they met at wakes or weddings. However, when Dad died of cancer twenty years ago, Mom, if not the Church, canonized Jack O’Hara. Right up there with Jude and Anthony. I, on the other hand, had always thought he’d been perfect.
I’d arrived five years into their marriage, after Mom’s countless visits to gynecologists, a minor, mysterious fertility operation, and a miscarriage. An Irish-American princess—with the most expensive baby carriage in Queens—christened Jacqueline Grace O’Hara, after Jackie Kennedy and Grace Kelly, my mother’s heroines. Honest to God. My dad had the good sense to call me Jake, and it stuck—much to my mother’s chagrin. Mom had hoped for a girly girl to dress in lavender and lace; she got a tomboy, who by four had beaten up all the little boys in nursery school and cut off my much fussed-over long blonde ringlets. We’ve worked out a deal. She doesn’t harp on curls and ruffles; I wear a dress on national holidays.
Just after my parents’ divorce, my mother’s maiden great-aunt conveniently up and died at ninety-five, leaving Maura O’Hara her grand old co-op: high ceilings, oak floors, chair rails, and moldings on the walls—tucked between Madison and Park, in Carnegie Hill, Mom’s and my most beloved neighborhood in the entire city, plus fifty thousand dollars in cash. We were out of Jackson Heights and across the Triborough Bridge in a New York minute. The fifty thousand covered our expenses for the first few years. Living happily ever after among the wealthy while living off credit cards can be tricky, but Mom managed to send me to the Convent of the Sacred Heart, a couple of blocks from our apartment building, and to pay the co-op’s maintenance and taxes for the next twenty years. A frustrated writer, Mom worked in the Corner Bookstore and did freelance editing.
Museum Row became my playground. On Sundays, we went to mass at St. Thomas More, occasionally sitting in the same pew as Jackie O—that made my mother’s day—visited the zoo at Central Park, fed the seals, rode the merry-go-round, and got our exercise walking through the park to the Museum of Natural History to see the dinosaurs. Then Mom and I would have tea at Sarabeth’s Kitchen. Or we had picnics in Andrew Carnegie’s former backyard, now the garden of the Cooper-Hewitt Museum. I had to sneak hot dogs in Central Park. They were on my mother’s forbidden list, one item below “Don’t talk to strangers.” One item above “Always wear gloves on the subway.” Mom worried about where, and if, the vendors had washed their hands after going to the bathroom.
Summer weekends, Mom loaded the wicker basket with cold chicken and a big thermos of Welch’s grape juice and we’d ride the Long Island Railroad to Long Beach or Point Lookout. Even as a kid, I knew: It’s a wonderful life.
“If you’re going to college on credit cards and student loans
, go for the gold...the Kennedy women’s alma mater, Manhattanville. Jean Kennedy Smith fixed Ethel up with her brother, Bobby, there,” my mother had said. “It’s co-ed now, you might get an MRS along with a B.A.” Sometimes my mother just sucked me into Camelot. I did get my B.A.; however, I’m still single.
I watched my mother stacking the last of the stemware gingerly in the dishwasher, thinking that she hadn’t changed a hell of a lot from her Miss Rheingold second-place finish forty years ago. Mom bubbled, “Oh, Jake, this is great. You might make some real money, giving you a chance to fin—”
“It’s just a meeting, Mom, don’t count—”
“But darling, I’ve suspected Suzy Q wasn’t herself in the last book. I’ll bet a ghostwriter, maybe Emmie, wrote them. Like Emmie, the plot was a little light on logic.”
Emmie Rogers was one of my closest friends, as well as the daughter of Linda and Mike Rogers, childhood friends of my mother’s.
I handed Mom the faux-crystal candy dish. “Can you fit this in there without endangering Nana’s Waterford? Where was Emmie tonight? She hasn’t missed one of your cocktail parties in years.”
“Emmie’s still sleeping with that Hungarian waiter in Yorkville. She’s flakier than ever. Served paprika on yogurt at lunch last week. But I’ll bet that’s why Suzy Q chased around Budapest in the last book. Kate Lloyd Connors would never be so...so Bohemian.”
“Come on, Mom, a little goulash and a lack of logic—never Kate’s strong suit—doesn’t prove a ghostwriter wrote Death on the Danube. I thought it was vintage Kate Lloyd Connors.”