by Noreen Wald
The ghostwriters were getting restless. We returned to the circle, and Ginger reconvened the meeting. Everyone had a chance to share. Most took advantage.
At the end of our meeting, all the ghostwriters joined hands and said the Serenity Prayer. Barbara B. walked down the stairs with me. “Congratulations, Barbara, you sounded great. I envy your serenity.’’
“Don’t, Jake. Like a good hair day, it comes and goes. It’s not enough that I’m worried sick about Em; she called last night sounding frantic and told me an unbelievable story. If true, it’s devastating. But you know how dramatic Emmie can be; she can’t have her facts right. We’re going to check them out today. Expect a call from her. She wants to tell you herself.”
“There’s something else, isn’t there?” We were all used to Em’s wild ideas.
“Just that last night I was scared stiff.” Her gray eyes clouded.
“What’s wrong, Barbara?”
“Let’s just say I accepted an offer that I should have refused.”
“For a new book deal?”
“No, for the one that’s coming out this week. Avarice and pride colored my judgment.”
“What is it—a book about the seven deadly sins?” Barbara ignored my weak attempt at humor. She tucked her dark hair behind her Holly Golightly glasses. “Jake, I need to talk to you.”
“I’m on my way down to Bloomie’s for a haircut before I head over to Sutton Place.”
“I’ll walk with you.” Barbara adjusted her long-legged stride to my gait. And fell silent.
“Well?” I finally asked.
“Jake, I’m really frightened.”
“Of what?”
“Last night I got a call from a business associate of the father of the woman I’m ghostwriting for. He said her father was very unhappy with our project.”
“Has he read the manuscript? Doesn’t he like the way you wrote it?”
“It’s not the way I wrote, it’s what I wrote. And he’s royally pissed at his darling daughter too, for spilling the family’s dirty laundry. It’s a high-concept book; she’s making the talk show rounds this week, and that’s just for starters. This book’s going to be big.”
“Who? What? Where?” I sounded like the lead in a newspaper article. Barbara pointed a shaky finger at me.
“Swear you won’t reveal any of this to a living soul.”
“For God’s sake, Barbara, we’ve just left a Ghostwriters Anonymous meeting. If not me, who can you trust? I wouldn’t break my own or any ghostwriter’s anonymity.”
Barbara gulped, as if coming up for air after being knocked bowlegged by a wave. “Angela Scotti.”
“The gangster? You ghosted The Don’s Daughter, Jimmy Scotti’s daughter’s book?”
“Lower your voice!” Barbara screamed.
“He’s in jail. He can’t hear us.”
“This is serious, Jake. He’s not at all pleased that Angela’s peddling the family secrets.”
“Is it hot stuff?”
“Oh, God, boiling.”
“How did Scotti find out?”
“I don’t understand. This deal was even more hush-hush than usual.”
“Shit. Barbara, how did you get mixed up with the Mafia in the first place?”
“My literary attorney introduced me to Angela. He represents both of us. I think you know him. Dennis Kim.”
Three
Was this an early Halloween party? Or were the costumes my lunch companions wore their usual garb for a Saturday in June? Modesty would have a ball with this bunch. There did seem to be a theme: Come as your favorite character in literature.
Jonathan Arthur had chosen the Scarlet Pimpernel. He’d answered the door, breathless, dressed in black spandex tights, a deep red tunic, a matching ruby earring, and brandishing a sword. “Sorry, Ms. O’Hara, I’ve just finished my fencing lesson.” Every bit as dashing as Leslie Howard. Jonathan returned his weapon to its sleeve, raised his face mask, and ushered me inside.
Chatting away, he led me through the foyer, an English manor house hallway, condensed to fit into the Georgian architecture of the Sutton Place townhouse, to a room he called the Conservatory. You could hear the capital “C” in his voice. If the exterior of the mansion had impressed me—red brick, lacquered black shutters, and a spectacular view of the 59th Street Bridge—the Conservatory took my breath away. White and blue. Delft figurines on the mantle. Floor-to-ceiling French doors leading to a tiny jewel of a garden. The table set for six with Wedgewood and Waterford gave Tiffany’s second-floor display department some stiff competition. I couldn’t wait to describe it to Mom. The room commanded good cheer. I smiled on cue.
“Kate will be down directly,” Jonathan said. “May I offer you a cocktail?” I opted for a Perrier and a better look at the gardens and the East River, walking over to the French doors. A Cecil Beaton set design. I should have come as Eliza Doolittle.
A Cockney voice broke into my reverie. “Gin and bitters for me, Jonathan, and don’t be stingy with the Gordon’s. Me ’ead is pounding.” As if I’d conjured her, a grunge-clad, thoroughly modern Eliza appeared on the scene.
“Ah,” Jonathan said, as he handed me my drink, “Ms. O’Hara, may I present Caroline Evans, Kate’s daughter.”
“The ’orrid stepdaughter,” the girl said. I stared at her.
She pouted. “Don’t you like my new look?” Whatever the old look had been, it had my vote.
“Audacious,” I said. Caroline grinned—my response seemed to please her—and extended milky white fingers ending in multicolored three-inch claws. It took some delicate maneuvering to avoid injury as we shook hands.
Caroline’s black hip-hugger skirt was as short as her black hair was long. They met at, and barely covered, the bottom of her behind. Mickey Mouse shoelaces, loosely tied at her bosom, closed her studded leather vest. Any movement jiggled the two rings dangling from her belly button. Her ears and nose were pierced and bejeweled as well. Consistency. A true virtue. Barefoot—her toenails were painted to match her fingernails but, fortunately, were cut much shorter.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Her makeup was early Madonna. She swallowed her drink in one gulp, and her big boobs danced as she spoke. “Gawd, make me another drink, Jonathan, and make it stronger...Oh, never mind, I’ll do it meself.” Caroline bounced to the bar. “So, you’re the new ’elper. Kate’s run through some ’apless ’elpers. You blokes ought to ’ave a union, Ms….”
“Call me Jake.” I thought, she’s only a kid, maybe eighteen, tops. Somehow I felt protective. God knows, I never considered myself motherly. “And you’re right, Caroline. There are certain professions that cry for a union or a guild.”
Caroline beamed. “See, Jonathan, contrary to popular belief around here, I do ’ave a brain in me ’ead.” Jonathan looked doubtful, but before he could reply the doorbell rang.
“Please excuse me, ladies, that will be our other guest.”
As soon as he was gone, Caroline whispered, “Things are seldom as they seem.”
“Gilbert and Sullivan?” I asked. She nodded. “I can’t remember the rest of it.”
Caroline opened her baby doll lips as if to tell me, when we heard voices and Jonathan returned.
“Jake, this is Patrick Hemmings.” Jonathan allowed the man to precede him into the Conservatory.
My first thought was: Jonathan must have decided if Caroline could call me by my first name, so could he. As the other guest strode in, compact jeans covering the sexiest butt I’d seen in Manhattan, my second thought was: Patrick Hemmings had come as the Marlboro Man. Not literary, but certainly banned billboard pulp fiction. I wondered where he’d tethered his horse on Sutton Place. A suntan that no doubt glowed all year. Yards of gray hair. His blueberry eyes—Ginger wasn’t the only ghostwriter who could use food as physical description—l
ocked into mine. God, just how desperate had I become? Patrick was the second man today who’d made me squirmy. And it wasn’t yet two in the afternoon. Kate Lloyd Connors should have sent him instead of Jonathan as her messenger. I’d have followed Patrick straight to hell. No questions asked.
Caroline leapt into Patrick’s arms, squealing, “Love, it’s good to see you.” He bestowed a chaste kiss on her wan cheek and extended a hand to me.
Jonathan, the perfect host, filled drink orders and announced, “Our little group is almost complete.” My attention shifted from Caroline to Patrick, motherly interest forgotten. His direct gaze warmed and chilled me in rapid, sequential waves. Could this be early menopause?
“I understand that you’re a writer, and Kate tells me you’re one of the finest editors in New York as well.”
“Thank you.” Aha. Kate must pass her ghostwriters off as editors.
“It’s wonderful meeting you, and I may need a referral. Do you know a good self-help editor?”
Pleased to be getting so much mileage out of my newly whitened teeth, I smiled. It’s a tradition in Ghostwriters Anonymous to help a fellow ghostwriter—lots of us did freelance editing—and, in doing so, I’d have a reason to talk to Patrick again. “I’m sure I can round up a few names and numbers for you. I’ll call you Monday.” He tugged a card out of his jeans pocket. I’d become quite the business card collector these last two days. Patrick’s was plain, yet attractive—like the man. Just the facts. Name, phone, address and occupation: Certified Hypnotherapist. Well, well, if I’d been playing What’s My Line?, I’d never have guessed his.
“I’ll wait to hear from you.” His gaze held me spellbound. Was I as flushed as I felt?
Our hostess swept into the room. Kate Lloyd Connors came as her own chic creation: Suzy Q. A black Chanel suit, trimmed with white braid, matching spectacles, and her heavy silver hair drawn away from her face, held with a black bow. A woman of a certain age, looking ageless. “Darlings, I’m so sorry I’m late. You all must be famished.” She linked her arm through mine. “Jake, my dear, come sit next to me. We have much to talk about.”
We all sat at the set-better-than-Tiffany’s table. Kate rang a little silver bell. Mrs. Danvers must have been hovering in the hall. She rolled in a huge cart, filled with what looked like takeout from the Russian Tearoom. And although the sixth place remained empty, luncheon was served.
Her name, of course, wasn’t Mrs. Danvers. But Vera Madison could have fooled me. The “come-as-your-favorite-fictional-character theme” must have been easy for Vera—better for the role than Dame Judith Anderson or Dame Diana Rigg. Danvers seemed to possess Vera. And I ought to know. Mrs. Danvers had been scaring me for years.
Mom kept a long list of her favorite book titles, and as I became age-appropriate, we’d cross them off. Her list never ended; as I started one book, she’d add another title. I read Rebecca on my fifteenth birthday, saw the movie in a revival house the same week and, forever more, identified with its heroine, Max de Winter’s bride—who had no name. A ghost story. What else? All of this may, or may not, have something to do with why I’ve chosen a no-name-recognition profession.
After Vera served the blintzes, sour cream, and fruit, she joined us at the table. Her dour presence filled the sixth seat. Kate Lloyd Connors, obviously a noblesse oblige-type employer, raised her glass and smiled radiantly at each of us. “May the wind always be at your back…”
“Up your Irish arse,” Caroline’s nasal vowels interrupted.
“Caroline, that’s enough, excuse yourself.” Jonathan sounded perturbed.
“You must forgive our Caroline, Jake.” Kate rested her gold bangle-bedecked wrist on my forearm. “She’s just home from hospital and not quite herself.”
Caroline jumped up. “I’m going to my room. The sour cream’s laced with cyanide. Don’t eat any, Jake.” I looked from Caroline to the bowl of sour cream, speechless.
“If you don’t believe me, ask Em.”
Unflappable, Kate turned to Vera. “Please escort Caroline upstairs and see that she takes her medication. Everyone, please try to put this unpleasantness out of your minds, and prepare your palates for charlotte russe.”
If the cyanide doesn’t kill us, the cholesterol will, I thought. Vera Madison took a firm hold on Caroline’s thin wrist and propelled her away from the table.
Patrick asked Jonathan to pass the sour cream. Jesus, was he a psychic as well as a hypnotist? How could Patrick be sure about the cyanide or lack of? I planned to eat my blintz topless. And how did Emmie fit into all this? Could Mom be annoyingly right as usual? What did Caroline mean by “Ask Em?” My mother’s best friend and tarot card reader, Gypsy Rose Liebowitz, often said, “All will be revealed.” I hoped so.
We limped through lunch. Vera returned in time for dessert. As she poured Kate’s coffee, I heard her say, “I gave her a sedative.” Considering Caroline’s concern about the poisoned sour cream, I was amazed that she’d taken a sedative administered by Vera. You couldn’t get me to accept an aspirin from that woman if my head were in a vise.
Kate used her white linen napkin to pat her lips with a finality that signaled our meal was over. “Excellent, as always, Vera. Thank you.” I was next up on Kate’s agenda. “Are you ready, my dear? I thought we might have our little chat in the library.”
“Fine, Miss Connors,” I said, wondering just how many rooms were in this mansion.
All the library needed was Russell Baker and we’d be on the set of Masterpiece Theatre. I perched on the edge of an overstuffed chair in my convent schoolgirl pose, both feet flat on the floor, and waited. Kate Lloyd Connors seemed in no hurry to get down to business. Her slim hand jangled as she waved in the general direction of the fireplace. “This room comforts me, Jake. It’s an old friend, holding memories of books read and words spoken. Do you believe that a room can be alive? That a room can take on its own persona? That a room can be your best friend?”
Kate saved me from giving the wrong response by answering her own questions. “Of course you do. You’re such a sensitive, spiritual person. That’s why I want to work with you. You’re the type of writer who’d listen when a room speaks.”
Could this be early Alzheimer’s? Was that why Kate needed a ghostwriter? I tried to appear inscrutable; did I fool Kate? Probably not. I never could bluff my mother and Gypsy Rose when we played poker. Then again, Gypsy Rose might have been reading the cards, not my facial expressions. But Kate understood my silence as assent.
“This room will reveal much to you, my dear. All you will need to know, should you accept this assignment.” Kate pushed her Chippendale chair away from its matching desk and walked to the bookcase lining the west wall. She picked up a fat folder, holding what looked like manuscript pages, from the bottom shelf.
“This is a labor of love,” she said, running her fingers across the top of the folder as if caressing a child’s head. “Read it, Jake; you’re officially on the clock as a consultant. I’ll be back in twenty minutes to see if I can sign my new co-author to a contract.” She hesitated, then said, “There’s been something on my mind all afternoon. You reminded me of someone. Now I know. Jake, you look just like Annie Hall.” She placed the folder in my lap, and left, pulling the heavy oak double doors shut. Was I locked inside?
Annie Hall? Had I dressed, without realizing it, as one of my favorite fictional characters? Maybe everyday was Halloween for some of us and we just don’t know it. I did know that the room may have spoken volumes to Kate, but I hadn’t uttered a single word.
The synopsis read well. A Killing in Katmandu found Suzy Q in a sexless romance with an old friend, the American ambassador, whose about-to-be ex-wife has been brutally murdered. Suzy Q’s suitor becomes the prime suspect. I liked it. A few chapters and the denouement were outlined. I guess the ghostwriter would be expected to fill in the blanks. Did Kate write all
her books this way? Twenty pages of plotting, then turning it over to a nameless ghostwriter? How had she gotten away with it for so long? She’d had over fifteen bestsellers. Won an Edgar. Where were her old ghostwriters? Did I know any of them? The image of Emmie’s heart-shaped face and big brown eyes filled my head. Sometimes all this anonymity drove me crazy. You never knew what your best friends were up to.
I put the synopsis down and stood up. Stretching, I realized how tired I felt. All that heavy food and wine. And now I had a decision to make. Did I want to ghostwrite A Killing in Katmandu? Or did I want to walk away from this house full of looney toons and write my own murder mystery? My heart cried for the latter. My credit cards cried louder. If the price was right, Kate and Suzy Q had bought themselves a new ghostwriter.
The sunshine had been replaced with a summer squall. The skies were dark and brooding. I hurried over to Third Avenue to grab an uptown bus, clutching the contract to my bosom. In my most professional tone, I’d told Kate that I’d have to review the contract with my attorney. She’d seemed surprised. The advance was staggering—I should be able to take a year off to write my own book when I’d finished Kate’s work-in-progress—and the deadline reasonable. The confidentiality clause, the strictest I’d ever seen, did have legal ramifications galore and raised anonymity to a secret status that I bet the CIA couldn’t top. But what the hell? I’d use the third step and turn the problems over to a power higher than myself. I’d been working on lack-of-identity issues for two years. I could handle this. But I understood now why no one ever suspected Connors used ghostwriters. Never in book publishing history had invisibility been so well covered.
Kate allowed that I could have Sam Kelley, our family attorney, review the contract provided that he too signed a “never tell in his lifetime” clause. “However,” she said, “I don’t think your Mr. Kelley will sweat the details. My attorney, Mr. Kim, has fine-tuned them through the years.”
As I left the library, I’d spied Patrick and Vera, deep in conversation, ascending the center hall staircase. Patrick held a tape recorder in one hand. Vera balanced a tray filled with medicine bottles. Neither noticed me.