by Noreen Wald
I arrived at our house on 92nd Street soaked, hair clinging to my cheeks in wet swirls, rain inside my shirt and shoes. Any chance that the contract had stayed dry seemed remote. The apartment door flew open before I could put my key in the lock. My mother must have been watching for me at a front window. She stood somber in the doorway, Gypsy Rose by her side, crying.
“Oh, Jake,” my mother said, “one of the ghostwriters is dead.”
“Emmie! I just knew something had happened to her.” I dropped my briefcase as tears mixed with raindrops dripped down my face.
“No, darling. No one can find Emmie. Ginger’s scoured the Upper East Side looking for her.”
“Then who’s dead, Mom?”
“It’s Barbara, dear. And God help us, she’s been murdered. A Detective Rubin just called. He’s on his way over. Jake, it seems you were the last one to see her alive.”
Four
A hot shower and dry martini were not in the cards, but while Gypsy Rose made me a nice cup of tea, I changed into jeans and a t-shirt. My mother, between bouts of crying, nose-blowing, and laying the wet contract out to dry, eulogized Barbara. “She was so bright, Jake. If I’ve read any of her books, I know I must have loved them. It’s just not fair to die while you’re still a ghostwriter and no one’s had a chance to recognize your talent. Darling, let this be a lesson, you must write your own book now.”
“Mom, how did Barbara die?”
“Detective Rubin didn’t say, and I was so shocked, I didn’t think to ask.”
Gypsy Rose brought the tea tray into the bedroom as I towel-dried my damp hair. “Drink this, Jake, and eat the bagel. You need energy. God knows how long the interrogation will be.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Gypsy Rose—or are you receiving bad vibes? You don’t think the police suspect Jake, do you?” My mother’s voice cracked.
“Maura, I just don’t want Jake to face the police on an empty stomach, and I don’t think she should answer any questions without an attorney.”
“Jake, maybe Gypsy Rose is right. Should I call Sam Kelley?”
I looked from one loving, anxious face to the other, thinking that Sam had trouble wading through a book proposal; how would he manage to muddle through murder?
“Ladies, ladies, stop worrying. Let’s wait and see what the detective has to say.” I took a sip of the hot tea, grateful as its warmth spread through my chills, and while I’d never been less inclined to eat, I took a small bite of the perfectly toasted bagel. It was easier to swallow than Gypsy Rose’s haranguing would be.
Gypsy Rose and Mom had been best buddies since we’d moved to Carnegie Hill. Widowed in her early thirties—exactly like Jackie Kennedy, my mother always said—Gypsy Rose had used the late Louie Liebowitz’s insurance money to open a tiny tearoom just off Madison on 93rd Street. Gifted with more than the ordinary woman’s intuition and a crackerjack card player, Gypsy Rose combined those assets with a course in parapsychology at the 92nd Street Y to become Carnegie Hill’s resident fortune-teller. Her tea shop was second only to the famed Sarabeth’s in neighborhood popularity. And at Sarabeth’s, a customer could eat the best muffins in Manhattan, but she couldn’t have her future predicted. An avid bibliophile, Gypsy Rose often hosted an author’s tea to help a neighbor launch his or her new book. The Hill housed writers galore and Gypsy Rose promoted them all, especially the alternate lifestylers. My mother said Gypsy Rose had been New Age before the movement had a name and swore that she’d had a previous-life love affair with Edgar Cayce. Gypsy Rose’s Sunday Salon—literary readings mixed with tea-leaf readings—quickly became a New York “in” thing.
Authors from all over the city traveled uptown to discuss out-of-body experiences or polyamorous past lives as their rapt audiences sipped Twinings English Breakfast Tea from dainty china cups.
By the early eighties, Gypsy Rose had leased the adjacent store and began to sell upscale self-help books along with her spiritual growth tea-leaf readings. Mom left her job at the Corner Bookstore to manage the new section, while Gypsy Rose and two part-time sorceresses provided the tea and sympathy.
My bedroom was crowded with twenty-five years’ worth of Gypsy Rose’s Christmas-past presents—giraffes, tigers, lions, and other huge stuffed animals from F.A.O. Schwarz. I loved Gypsy Rose, but when she and Mom ganged up on me, I could cheerfully have killed them.
Hell, what was I thinking? Of course I didn’t mean that literally. However, my mind was full of murder. Who’d want to kill Barbara Bernside? All the ghostwriters admired her warmth and wisdom. She’d been a model of spirited but serene anonymity.
Yet our last conversation troubled me as it flashdanced through my mind. Had Barbara been murdered by the Mob? I shuddered as Gypsy Rose refilled my teacup and the downstairs doorbell rang.
While Mom went to buzz in Detective Rubin, I fluffed my hair, and at Gypsy Rose’s “You look like death warmed over,” reapplied lipstick and blush.
With my favorite fortune-teller at my heels—maybe a lawyer would have been a better choice—I walked into the living room. I heard him before I saw him. A booming baritone. The voice matched the man. Detective Rubin filled our doorway. At least six-two, with wide shoulders, dark hair, and firm jaw, he could have come to Kate Lloyd Connors’ luncheon as Antonio Banderas.
My mother, in her lady-of-the-manor mode, introduced herself, invited him in, and showed him to the Eames chair. He glanced around and caught my eye. I checked my watch. Six thirty. And this was the third man today to tweak my sneaks.
“Ben Rubin.” He managed to flip his ID open with one large hand as he extended the other for me to shake.
“Hi, I’m Jake O’Hara, and this,” I waved Gypsy Rose forward, “is our close family friend, Mrs. Liebowitz.” Rubin smiled. A big, broad, sincere grin, revealing appealing dimples. People smiled when they met Gypsy Rose, and most everyone liked her. Her aura was perfect for a local family fortune-teller: warm concern and cool competence. The tough NYPD detective seemed as enchanted as all of her clients were. Gypsy Rose’s wild, thick red hair clashed with her Versace hot pink silk suit, but on her, the offbeat combination worked. She was curvy, with creamy skin, bright blue eyes, and great legs. A siren at sixty. Gypsy put an arm around my waist and led me to the couch, where she sat next to me, arms crossed, chin thrust forward, ready to protect and defend me from the enemy. My mother stationed herself in the Casablanca chair where Jonathan had perched. God, was that only last night?
Detective Rubin, flanked by my mother to his right and Gypsy Rose to his left, decided to forge straight ahead and deal directly with me. I, after all, had been the last person to see Barbara alive. That thought stuck in my throat.
“Ms. O’Hara, I know this must be difficult for you, but I need to ask you a few questions.” I nodded. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even swallow.
“This morning, did you and the deceased attend a meeting at the Jan Hus Lutheran church?” Phrased in the form of a question, I knew he’d really made a simple declarative statement. I nodded again, then glanced at my mother.
“Jake never misses her weekly support group.” My mother stole Detective Rubin’s attention away from me. All too briefly.
“Mrs. O’Hara, I may have some questions for you later, but for now, I’d like Ms. O’Hara to answer those I’m asking her.” My mother fussed with her bangs. I knew Rubin made her nervous.
He looked at me. “Had you known Barbara Bernside a long time?” I hated hearing him talk about Barbara in the past tense. I nodded for the third time.
“How long, Ms. O’Hara?” This was it. A question I couldn’t answer with a nod. Please, God, let me speak. Give me back my voice. I opened my mouth. Nothing.
My mother began, “About two…” A glare from Rubin closed her mouth.
I tried again. “Two years,” squeaked out. An answered prayer. “We were both
founding members of Ghostwriters Anonymous.” Now that the faucet had been turned on, I babbled.
“Ten of us formed a support group. You know—to deal with our anonymity issues.”
Rubin stared at me, wrote something in his little black book, then said, “Go on.”
“We meet every Saturday. We try to follow the principles of our twelve-step program in all our affairs.” What did he want to know?
“And today, Ms. O’Hara, did anything unusual happen at the meeting?”
“Well, Em wasn’t there.”
“Em?”
“Yes, Emmie Rogers. I figured she must have been the ghostwriter who was killed.” Rubin scribbled furiously. Now that I could talk again, I couldn’t seem to shut up.
“She didn’t come to my mother’s cocktail party Friday night. And Ginger couldn’t reach her. Barbara said Em had told her something potentially devastating. Then Em wasn’t at the meeting. She’s not like that.”
“Not like what?”
“Like someone who’d go missing without letting any of us know. We ghostwriters are family.”
Rubin shook his head. “Let’s get back to Barbara Bernside. Reverend Hogland told me that he saw you and the deceased heading downtown together after the meeting ended. Is that correct?”
“Yes, Barbara walked me to Bloomie’s. Well, most of the way. I had an eleven-thirty appointment for a haircut.”
“Where did Ms. Bernside go when she left you?”
“Home, I guess.” Once again, Rubin jotted in his notebook.
“And what did you two talk about on that walk from 71st and First to almost 59th and Third?”
“Well, actually…Barbara seemed upset.” Would I break our group tradition of complete confidentiality if I told Detective Rubin that Barbara’s Angela Scotti book could have been a motive for her murder? Did a ghostwriter’s anonymity follow her to the grave?
“About what, Ms. O’Hara?”
“What?” I sounded as flustered as I felt.
“Why was Barbara Bernside upset?” Rubin spoke deliberately, as if to a child.
“The Mob,” I mumbled.
“Did you say the Mob?”
“Yes, Barbara told me she’d been threatened by the Mafia.”
Gypsy sat wide-eyed. My mother gasped and blew her nose. Rubin stared at his hands. No one spoke for a long moment.
Then Detective Rubin said, “Let’s start at the top, Ms. O’Hara.”
I told him all I knew. If I betrayed a step or violated a tradition, I did it to help a fellow ghostwriter. Someone had killed Barbara. I wanted that someone found. I ended my tell-all with a question of my own. “Do you think it could have been the Mafia, Detective Rubin?”
He stood. “I’m sure I’ll have lots more questions for you. Will you be home tomorrow?”
“Sunday. Yes, I think so. Detective Rubin, how was Barbara killed?”
“A blow to the base of the neck.”
“The weapon?” I’d been writing death scenes for over a decade. I wanted to know.
Rubin shrugged. “Someone leaked that bit of evidence. It’ll be in Sunday’s Post. So no harm telling you now. Her neck was broken with a signed copy of The Godfather.”
“Seems a little heavy-handed for the Mob,” my mother said. Rubin shrugged.
“Is it possible to kill someone with a book?” I was amazed.
“Well, it’s not easy, but if you know exactly where to hit, and you strike with great force using the spine, a book can be a deadly weapon.”
“God help us.” I closed my eyes, thought a second, then asked, “The time of death?”
“Sometime after she’d left you, just before eleven thirty, and when the building superintendent discovered the body at two. Narrows it down.”
“You don’t think it was the Mob, do you, Detective Rubin?”
“I don’t know, Ms. O’Hara. I do think, based on the information the deceased shared with you, that her murderer also might have known, A, Barbara had written the Scotti book, and B, the Don was angry at her for spilling the family business. Maybe that’s why The Godfather strikes me as an odd red herring.”
“Or else,” Gypsy Rose said, “maybe a member of the Mob has a madcap sense of irony.”
“Death isn’t a Frank Capra movie,” my mother said. Detective Rubin left. I had the distinct impression that he was glad to get out of here.
I settled on the couch, grumbling. Gypsy Rose rubbed my aching back while my mother put the kettle on and made us sandwiches. “You do realize that I’m on the short list of candidates who Barbara might have told about her conversation with the Mob? It’s a damn good thing I have Mr. Pierre as an alibi from eleven thirty to twelve thirty and the Kate Lloyd Connors crazies from one to two. My window of opportunity is mighty slim.”
My mother placed the tray on the coffee table. “Jake, you can’t believe that Detective Rubin considers you as a possible suspect.” She handed me two extra-strength Tylenol.
I held her shaky hand. “No, but only because he knows I’d have to be Mercury to dash from Bloomingdale’s to 63rd and Madison and back over to Sutton Place between twelve thirty and one p.m.”
Gypsy Rose selected a sandwich. “What were you doing at Kate Lloyd Connors’? I saw her home in Town & Country last month. Looked like a bit of jolly old England, transplanted to the East Side, with river view.”
Oh hell. Had I become the biggest blabbermouth in Manhattan? What kind of a ghostwriter would behave so cavalierly? As dear as I held Gypsy, only Mom and my attorney ever knew anything about my employers.
“She’s a member of Sisters in Crime,” I said. True enough, if not the whole truth.
“Oh, are you doing an article on her?” Gypsy Rose knew I sometimes volunteered to write public relations pieces for the SinC newsletter.
“Wouldn’t that be wonderful? You must be psychic, Gypsy Rose. And, yes, her house was grand. I’ll tell you all about it when I feel better.” Again, I’d managed to tell nothing but the truth.
“Jake, why don’t you just eat something and go to bed?” My mother passed me the tray of sandwiches. Real turkey breast on sourdough bread. Russian dressing. Suddenly hungry, I grabbed one. My mother smiled. “I have Jell-O too.”
“All my favorite comfort foods.”
“That’s what mothers are for,” mine said.
While we ate, my mother filled me in on Ginger’s phone call. “Ginger spent most of the day visiting or calling all of Em’s haunts. That turnip—Ginger’s description, not mine—Ivan the Terrible claimed he hadn’t seen or heard from Emmie since noon Friday. Ginger was stumped. She’s left messages all over town and will call us in the morning to report any progress.”
“Did Ginger say anything about Barbara’s funeral arrangements?”
“She spoke with Barbara’s brother in Pittsburgh. Bill, I think she said. He’s flying in tomorrow, but he can’t make any plans ’til the autopsy is done. The family’s aiming for a viewing and service at Campbell’s on Wednesday.”
My eyes filled. “Poor Ginger’s had a lousy day. Mine hasn’t been the greatest either. I’m taking a hot bath and your advice, Mom. I’m going to bed. This has been the longest goddamn day of my life.”
At ten o’clock, comfy in my rag bag nightshirt and socks, I flipped on my computer. I hadn’t checked my email since yesterday afternoon before Mom’s cocktail party. The first message read: “Jake, I can’t make the party. Meet me at eight at Elaine’s. You must have your phone turned off while you’re finishing the book. It’s urgent that we talk. Alone.—‘Skim milk masquerades as cream.’” The email had been sent at five on Friday; it was signed ‘Emmie.’
Five
I called Emmie and got the answering machine. What’s a friend to do? Twenty-five hours late for Emmie’s requested meeting, I dressed again and hailed a cab
to Elaine’s. I figured Emmie wouldn’t still be seated at the bar, but if she’d shown up last night, maybe the bartender or one of the regulars had chatted with her and could shed some neon on where she might be. Reliable ghostwriters don’t disappear. Emmie had a lucrative assignment going. I now suspected that she’d been working for Kate Lloyd Connors. Had she quit unexpectedly on Friday? Was that why Jonathan had recruited me?
One of our Ghostwriters Anonymous program’s traditions suggest that there are no coincidences. I concurred. It would have to be more than coincidence that Emmie’s email quote—“Skim milk masquerades as cream”—was the second line of the Gilbert and Sullivan couplet that Caroline Evans had whispered to me—“Things are seldom as they seem.” I’d remembered as soon as I read Em’s message.
Elaine’s on Second Avenue was just a block from the Claridge House on Third Avenue, between 87th and 88th Streets, where Emmie lived. A saloon, its atmosphere aged and stale, its food mediocre, and its bar area usually so jammed you couldn’t get a stool, Elaine’s had attracted writers and sundry other celebrities for decades, even before it moved to the Upper East Side from its original Greenwich Village location. Our crowd, the working writers, felt at home here. Some of Elaine’s customers were bestselling authors. Some were ghostwriters.
Tonight the joint was jumping. Joe Wynn, the James Bond of bartenders, worked his post, serving two drinks at once while taking an order for three more. I squeezed past Dick Cavett and nodded to other regulars. There were no stools, but I positioned myself between a professional type—tweeds in June—to my west and a young model—I recognized her cover-girl face, but didn’t know her name—to my east.
When I caught Joe’s attention, I ordered a Perrier with lots of lime, afraid if I had any alcohol in my sleep-deprived state I’d pass out standing up. “Joe, if you get a minute, or take a break, I’d really like to talk to you.”