Ghostwriter Anonymous

by Noreen Wald

  “Talk, Jake, while you have me. It’s catch as catch can.” Joe decorated a Singapore Sling with an umbrella as he spoke. Jeez, who’d drink that pink mess?

  “Was Emmie Rogers here last night around eight?”

  “Yeah, you stood her up.”

  “I didn’t mean to. I just got her invitation when I checked my email an hour ago.”

  “Well, Emmie was pretty upset.”

  “Oh God. Did she say anything, anything at all, about what was bothering her? Or why she wanted to talk to me?” I felt guilty as hell.

  Joe whisked the Martini & Rossi bottle over a shaker filled with Absolut vodka, allowing only a dollop of ver­mouth to make contact. After shaking gently, he poured the cocktail into a chilled glass, added two olives, and placed his work of art in front of the professor on my right. Someone at the front end of the bar called for a whiskey sour. “Just a minute, Jake, that sour’s seated in my station.”

  Gus Henley, a fixture at Elaine’s, covered the far end of the bar, closer to the dining room. He smiled at me as he plucked an orange slice from the fruit section. “Gus, did you see Emmie here last night?”

  “My granddaughter’s high school graduation, Jake,” he called over his shoulder, walking toward the rear of the bar. “I had the night off.”

  “Congratulations!” I shouted at his back.

  Joe worked his way back toward me, mopping up a spill, offering a drink, telling a joke. The noisy chatter gave me a headache, but Joe kept smiling. When the orders slowed down, he finally came over to me, wiping his hands on his apron. “Where were we? Oh, right, Emmie. Well, at first I thought it might be boyfriend trouble. Never did like that Igor.”

  “Ivan.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, I think it was more. Seemed real nervous. She downed two straight shots of Jack Daniels and tore up three coasters in ten minutes.”

  “But what did she say?”

  Joe frowned. “I remember that she said something about thinking how you know a person and that person turns out to be someone you don’t know at all.”

  A hand landed on my left shoulder. Startled, I turned my head and looked into the gold-flecked eyes of Dennis Kim.

  “Buy you a drink, Jake?”

  Suddenly, I needed one. “Yes, Dennis, you can. A glass of Dom Pérignon, please.” Since he was the most successful entertainment lawyer in Manhattan, I figured he could afford the best.

  Joe went off to fill the order as the surge of the after-­theater crowd swept in, shoving Dennis into me. We couldn’t have been any closer if we were having sex. I squirmed to my right, almost knocking the professor off his stool.

  Dennis grinned. “It’s okay...I won’t bite.”

  I had to laugh.

  “Listen,” he said, “I have a reserved table waiting. You want to join me for a late supper?”

  I glanced at my watch. Eleven thirty. In Spain, this would be the start of an evening. And I did have a few questions for Dennis Kim. I smiled. “Rigatoni Bolog­nese?”

  “You got it.” Dennis placed a hundred on the bar, picked up my champagne glass, asked Joe to send the bottle over to us, and led me through the crowd to a table next to Woody Allen’s.

  He brought up Barbara before I had a chance. “Can’t believe Barbara’s dead.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “Your mother told my father while she squeezed a cantaloupe. Barbara was a brilliant writer, Jake.”

  “And a client of yours.”

  “Yes, for several years now. I’ve hooked her up with some great employers.”

  “Apparently, some not so great. I had a talk with Barbara this morning, right before…”

  My eyes filled with tears and my nose started to run. I’d dashed out of the house with only my keys and money in my blazer pocket. Embarrassed, I reached for a napkin. Dennis handed me his monogrammed handkerchief.

  “It’s a lousy deal, Jake. I’ll miss her too.”

  I blew my nose and tucked his handkerchief in my pocket. “I’ll return it, washed and ironed.”

  He patted my hand. Undeterred, I plunged. “Barbara told me how scared she was of Jimmy Scotti. She’d received a not-so-veiled threat on Friday.”

  Dennis’s eyes went cold. “Really, I didn’t know. My God, could that be why she was killed?”

  I took a big gulp of champagne. “Do you represent many mobsters?”

  “What are you thinking? Why would you ask that?” Dennis rubbed his forehead as if in pain.

  “Well, you handled Barbara’s contract with Angela Scotti, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, Angela, like dozens of my other clients, was a literary, not a Mob referral. I don’t do business with the Mafia, Jake.”

  “Then I guess you won’t mind answering the police’s questions. A Detective Rubin interviewed me tonight. I told him all I knew about Barbara and the boys, includ­ing the Dennis Kim connection.”

  “Look here, Jake, I just explained my connection, and I’ll have no trouble discussing it with Homicide. What’s wrong with you? For God’s sake, you’ve known me for twenty-five years.”

  The waiter appeared with our order. “Here’s our rigatoni. Let’s not discuss this now. I want to enjoy my dinner. I guess I’m just tired.” That’s what I said. What I thought was: Gilbert and Sullivan and Emmie were right. How well do we know anyone?

  Over spumoni and espresso—I’d get no sleep tonight—I raised the table stakes and played the Kate Lloyd Connors card. “Dennis, you’re all around this town like horse manure.”

  “Now, now, Jake, what happened to our well-bred convent school graduate? What kind of dinner table conversation is that? The Madames of the Sacred Heart would be shocked to hear one of their young ladies sounding so vulgar.”

  “Dennis, I had a D in deportment senior year. Was ranked incorrigible by the nun who taught Etiquette. Mom had to do some fast talking to Mother Superior or I wouldn’t have graduated. And please don’t try to distract me. Your clients seem to cover the entire East Side.”

  “That’s better.” He poured a second cup from the double espresso pot the waiter had left on the table.

  “I had lunch in Kate Lloyd Connors’ upscale Sutton Place loony bin.”

  “Little girl, you’ve had a busy day.”

  “Full of surprises. I never knew you were the attorney for the Queen of Murder-Most-Cozy.”

  “Right. And I’ve never known either who you’ve ghosted for or who represents you.”

  “Well, you’ll soon be privy to that information. It looks like I’m Kate’s ghostwriter-elect, and you’ll be dealing with my attorney, Sam Kelley.” I detected a slight wrinkling of Dennis’s nose when he heard Sam’s name.

  “It will be a pleasure doing business with you, my dear. Salut.” Dennis raised his demitasse and clicked it against mine. “To my favorite ghostwriter.”

  “I bet you say that to all Kate’s spooks.”

  “Jake, you know former ghostwriters are best forgotten and that their employer’s attorney would be the last person alive to admit they ever existed.”

  “That’s the spirit, Dennis. Now please take me home. I have to get some sleep.”

  I saved Emmie for the ride home. I’d never been in Dennis’s cream-colored Rolls Royce convertible, though I often saw it parked illegally in front of his father’s store. After the lawyer-client-ghostwriter-confidentiality-as-a-religious-experience crap that Dennis had fed me along with the spumoni, I knew he’d never discuss whether Em had ghosted for Kate, but I wanted to see how he’d react to her disappearance. Dennis had known Emmie for years, from Elaine’s and from Mom’s cocktail parties, where he occasionally graced us with his presence. And we all knew Emmie was Mr. Kim’s favorite ghostwriter. But did Dennis also know her as Kate’s ghostwriter?

  “Missing? Just because she’s not seen for a day doesn’t
mean Em’s missing. Maybe she’s gone off with that creep Igor.”

  “Ivan. No, he told Ginger that he doesn’t know where she is either.” I laid my head back against the leather seat. It smelled rich. “I’m worried.”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday. Go to Mass with your mother, do the Times crossword puzzle, have tea with Gypsy Rose. Forget murder, mayhem, and mysterious disappearance. Give yourself a day of rest.”

  “I just need a night of rest. I’ll take two Tylenol and be fine in the morning.” Dennis walked me to the door and kissed the tip of my nose. My toes curled. “Thanks for dinner.” I kissed his left cheek. Then wondered why.

  Six

  By eleven o’clock Sunday morning, I’d finally killed Wagner, had an English muffin in the toaster oven, and was getting dressed for church. Using Mom’s suggestion, I’d set the death scene, not in our bland, colorless kitchen, but in Ginger’s country French-style kitchen/sitting room, complete with chic, state-of-the-art culinary appliances and overstuffed armchairs. I wanted all that requisite blood and gore to contrast with cozy gingham. And Ginger’s roomy apartment, a block north of ours, had the cheeriest goddamn kitchen in Manhat­tan, possibly in the world.

  My mother, delighted that “her heathen daughter” had decided to accompany her to twelve-fifteen Mass at St. Thomas More’s, followed me around, chatting, as I blow-dried my hair and gulped a cup of tea. “So, tell me more about Dennis and your dinner. Do you think his marriage to that Wu woman can be annulled?”

  “We shared some rigatoni, Mom. We aren’t announc­ing our engagement.”

  “Well, it takes months to get an annulment. More than enough time for a proper courtship.”

  “One more word and you go to church alone.”

  My mother knew when to retreat. She went to find her rosary beads and, no doubt, a new plan of attack. I went back to fighting my cowlick.

  Ginger’s nine-thirty call had awakened me from an angst-filled dream. We arranged to have brunch at her apartment after last Mass. Ginger hadn’t found Emmie yesterday, but she had a hunch about Ivan. She’d spoken again to Bill Bernside and would give us an update on the funeral arrangements.

  Now that Wagner was out of the way—I’d written the last chapter a week ago but had struggled with my on­going scene-of-the-crime phobia—I called Sam Kelley and made an appointment for him to review the Kate Lloyd Connors contract on Monday morning. Ghostwriters are fickle. Finish one death, blithely onto the next. Dennis was right; I deserved a day of rest. I’d thank God and the entire communion of saints if Detective Rubin didn’t call before I left for Mass. I wanted to talk to Ginger before I dealt with him.

  As we strolled down Madison Avenue to 89th Street in the bright midday sunshine, I thought how smart my mother looked: all beige and taupe, her short hair a shade darker than her linen jumpsuit, her figure slimmer than mine. Maybe I should join the gym at the 92nd Street Y.

  “You’re the one who should get married.”

  Even jok­ing, this was dangerous ground to tread. When my mother had been a divorcee, she’d dated a lot, but once she be­came a “widow,” she announced there could never be anyone to take my father’s place. I wondered if Jack O’Hara, wherever his spirit currently resided, knew that here on earth Mom had remained faithful to her ex-husband’s ghost. I could almost hear him laughing.

  My mother changed the subject. “After brunch, I’d like to run down to Bloomingdale’s to find an outfit for Barbara’s funeral. You need a black dress too, Jake.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you can’t mourn properly in living color.” Faced with logic like this, I agreed to go shopping. I did mourn Barbara, deeply.

  I’d met Barbara when Ginger brought her to our first ever Ghostwriters Anonymous meeting. We weren’t or­ganized yet, just a bunch of ghostwriters nobody knew. Most of us didn’t even know each other. Barbara’s laid-back elegance and assurance impressed me. A natural leader. I’d liked her from page one, and the other anonymity sufferers seemed to feel the same way. That day, we ghostwriters made a decision to surrender our anonymity and to deal with our non-identities.

  Barbara had been the most prolific of the ghostwriters—except for Modesty’s hundreds of ghosted romances and her thousand pages and counting unpublished gothic horror—and made the most money. She came from money too. Old money. Philadelphia’s Main Line. Harvard. Oxford. I’d never seen her wear nail polish, and most of her wardrobe looked as if it had been purchased from an outdated Talbot’s catalogue. Her vast townhouse apartment between Fifth and Madison on 63rd Street had to have been trust-funded. It reeked of DAR...like tea roses two days after they’ve been delivered. Faded chintz, tables cluttered with books, walls covered with an odd mix of Old Masters and cheaply framed posters from the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  Barbara lived her life like the educated gentlewoman she was, surrounded by the things she loved. Her common sense, openness, and nonjudgmental attitude had the ghostwriters squabbling over whom she’d sponsor. Everyone wanted a piece of what Barbara had. Even miserable Modesty. Which is why I knew how upset Barbara had been by that call from the Don’s henchman. Her unflappability was legend among us ghostwriters.

  After Mass, I lit a candle for Barbara’s soul, wondering where card-carrying members of the Ethical Cultural Society went when they died. Wondering where I’d go. What the hell had the church done with purgatory? Was it still available? I’d have to check with Mom on current dogma. My mother loved the drama of Catholicism. She’d just lighted enough candles to burn down the borough of Manhattan. She stood in front of them, transfixed. A practicing pyromaniac.

  “Mom, let’s get out of here before someone calls the fire department.” She sniffed. Inhaling holy smoke or showing disdain for me?

  “I can only hope when I’m gone, you’ll remember to light a candle for me each week. Did you light one for your father?”

  Guilty, I shoved another dollar in the slot and scouted around for a fresh candle. All the ones in front of Mom’s kneeler were ablaze.

  Father Newell stood in the vestibule, expansively greeting everyone, shaking hands and addressing most parishioners by name. My mother received a chaste kiss on the cheek—as well she should—and a warm, “Hello, Maura.” I figured Mom had just dropped at least thirty bucks in the vigil light slots. I hoped her prayers would pay off.

  We arrived at Ginger’s a little after one thirty. Though grieving over Barbara and worrying about Emmie, Ginger remained the perfect hostess. Some people eat when they’re stressed. Some people drink. Ginger cooked. And cleaned. Not that her dollhouse ever looked less than immaculate. Her home and hearth never seemed to lose their luster. Neither did Ginger. She was radiant this afternoon, her hair sleek in a French twist, dressed in a color she called Revere-Ware copper, her sandals matching her flowing silk slacks and shirt. If I’d as much as turned on the toaster oven wearing that outfit, I’d go up in a bigger blaze than Mom’s bonfire of candles. Ginger’s skin glowed, her cheeks a deep pink—presumably from the heat of passionate preparations.

  She served a pitcher of mimosas, along with wonder­ful crabmeat canapés, as she struggled to be her relentlessly cheery self, smiling through teary eyes when she spoke about Emmie.

  “I didn’t find a living soul who’d seen her since late Friday afternoon.”

  “Emmie was at Elaine’s Friday night.” I gave a full report on last night’s investigation and the email message that had precipitated it.

  Ginger frowned. “I stopped at Elaine’s earlier on Saturday, about three. Had a Bloody Mary. Too much cayenne, as usual. Of course, the day shift was still on duty and no one had seen Emmie. I should have gone back.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “But now we know she was okay at nine thirty Friday night.” I’d almost said still alive. I put that dreaded thought on hold.

  “I wonder where she went when she left Elaine’s,” Ginger sai
d.

  “And why?” My mother looked puzzled. “Emmie really needed to see Jake. Why didn’t she call or come by our house when Jake didn’t show up?”

  ‘‘You’re right, Mom. Something or someone may have stopped her.” I shivered.

  “I think we need to speak to Ivan again.” Ginger passed the canapés. ‘‘He said Emmie was really upset but claims that he doesn’t know why. I don’t believe him.”

  “If Em’s problem was ghostwriter-related, she’d never share it with Ivan.” I took another crabmeat canapé and a sip of mimosa. “And she may have been thinking of ending their affair; she said sleeping with someone who looked like Dracula’s kid brother but talked like Zsa Zsa Gabor was disconcerting.”

  My mother said, “You should question that crazy Hungarian, Jake. He may have answers he doesn’t even know he has.”

  “Ginger, do you have any idea who Em was currently ghostwriting for?” I asked.

  “No, I think the job came with one of those confidentiality clauses that you sign in blood.”

  The Kate Lloyd Connors contract crossed my mind, but I said nothing, and Ginger moved on to the main course. Dover sole. Poached to perfection, served with new potatoes and endive salad.

  “The bread’s from Zabar’s; I’m sorry I didn’t have time to bake.”

  “Ginger, why don’t you just get up at four instead of five? That way you could stick the bread in the oven before you leave for the fish market.” I said it with a smile. I was used to Ginger’s penchant for perfection.

  She’d been driving me crazy for years. We’d met when we co-ghosted Cooked To Death for an eccentric old chef who’d started a new career as a mystery writer. Each clue was a recipe. Ginger pronounced his white cream sauce too thick; I called his plot too thin. While whipping his potboiler into haute cuisine, we became good friends. And the book sold fifty thousand copies, proving people will buy and try anything.

  Along with the chocolate mousse, Ginger brought out the Post’s early edition. Barbara Bernside made the headline—bold, black and two inches high: GODFATHER WHACKS WRITER. There was a quarter-page photo of her below. The opposite quarter-page featured a shot of Jimmy Scotti. The caption beneath the two pictures read: “Book, not bullet, kills Mafia’s daughter’s ghostwriter.” Detective Rubin said there had been a leak about the cause of death, but how did the Post know that Barbara had ghosted Angela’s book? Was it from the same source?